The Ties That Bind
by brownpaperbags
Summary: A different take on the events that occur during 'The Homecoming.' Ryan is set on helping his brother Trey, but what happens when the deal he was supposed to be making goes terribly wrong? Will the Cohen's forgive him once again or will his time in paradise be over? There will be some serious consequences to his actions when he returns home, but first he has to live that long.
1. Better Luck Next Time

**Author's Note: **_Here is my first attempt at an O.C. fiction. If you like what you read please let me know. I need reviews to survive._

Ryan Atwood felt crazy. No, more than that…certifiably insane. That was the word he was looking for. He was sure that if Sandy Cohen could see him now he would readily agree. He knew that Sandy was from the Bronx, knew his father had abandoned him and his mother left him to his own devices, knew that the man had taken a walk on the wrong side of the tracks, but Ryan didn't think the lawyer could ever understand Chino. Or what it did to him.

His life before the Cohen's had been a nonstop merry-go-round of chaos. His mother, who had always managed to offer at least some protection to her two boys from Ryan's father Frank, went off the deep end after Frank was arrested in Fresno. Despite her incessant promises that things would be different their circumstances had gone from bad to worse. At first it had merely been Dawn the two brothers had to contend with. Sometimes she came home drunk, sometimes she came home strung out on the drug of the day, and sometimes she never came home at all.

Then came the endless string of boyfriends and thugs looking for a good time. Dawn was always more than willing to turn a blind eye to the more nefarious and seedy aspects of her lovers, even when that extended to using her children as punching bags. In the early years he would look for Dawn to protect him, to rush to his defense as she had when Frank had one too many and flew off the handle, but her protection never came. Her mother bear response was lost in the booze and the drugs. As the bruises piled up and the days dodging questions from concerned teachers multiplied, the youngest Atwood realized his mother was gone in every sense of the word but the physical. Even with this he could never hate her. Ryan suspected that despite the numerous men she brought home his mother was the loneliest person he'd ever met. At least he'd had Trey.

Trey. The only reason Ryan had survived as long as he had was because of his brother. It had been Trey that had stolen food for them from the corner gas stations when Dawn had been too drunk to keep a job, let alone buy groceries. It had been Trey that had taught Ryan how to fight properly and despite the Cohen's insistence that violence was not the answer he felt that this skill had served him better than almost anything else. Trey stood up for him when Dawn merely stood by, tears streaming down her face, as Ryan lay prone on the floor, his flesh already darkening where the latest fist had struck. It was Trey that gave him the confidence to fight back and helped him find a place to stay when things had become too much at home. Hell, if he really thought about it, Trey was the reason he'd found the Cohen's. The reason he finally learned what having a family really felt like.

And yet, Ryan couldn't help but feel that Trey was also the reason he'd found so much trouble over the years. It hadn't been until Seth Cohen had come barreling into his life that he understood what it meant to have someone who cared for you with no strings attached. With Trey it had always felt like every favor his brother did for him was being noted and would one day need to be returned. Hell, today was proof of that. His brother had called in an 'IOU' that could land Ryan back where he'd come from or worse and Ryan had no choice but accept because Trey was his family, his blood in a way the Cohen's could never be. Seth would never understand Ryan's life before he'd been busted for car theft and Ryan didn't want him to. For reasons unknown to him he found the idea of Seth ever becoming involved in the Chino world repulsed him. Perhaps because he knew that the quirky young man would never survive or perhaps because Ryan was ashamed of who he'd been before.

The youngest Cohen had only ever seen flashes of what he'd dubbed the 'Old Ryan Atwood', but even with the brief glances he'd been privy to the young man had been shocked into silence. He'd told Seth very little of his life before and usually over some science fiction movie or a round of _Mortal Kombat_ on the Playstation where Ryan knew he wouldn't be completely focused on what he was saying, but he never missed the awkward glances Seth would send in his direction or the way Seth's hands would slip slightly on the controller. That told Ryan all he needed to know. Seth was happy being Ryan's surrogate brother, being his friend and confidant, but the kid had no real desire to know the bad boy from Chino or the past that hovered over his head like a thunder storm. No, Seth wanted to know Ryan of Newport, the hidden secret in the pool house that was more than happy to beat the shit out of any water polo scumbag that happened to come along. Seth was the brother he smiled and laughed with, played video games and stayed up late eating junk food with, was happy with. Trey was the brother he knew would have his back in a fistfight, the brother he partied with, the brother he stole cars with.

Or for, as the current case may be. Ryan still couldn't believe he'd agreed to this. It was Thanksgiving for hell's sake. He'd actually been excited to have a real Thanksgiving dinner with turkey and sweet potatoes and people he loved and who loved him back, unconditionally. And Trey had to ruin everything. Why couldn't his brother see Ryan had a good thing going? That for the first time in his life he was being taken care of and had an actual shot at a future?

The car rumbled beneath his feet and he couldn't help but smile grimly at the power of the engine. He was more than aware that he was heading into the lion's den and he truly doubted he had the support of the Big Guy Upstairs like Daniel had. As a kid, when his mother had sobered up and forced them all to church, he'd always been fascinated by the story of Daniel and the lion's den. He found a strange kinship with the man. Both were stuck in places they didn't want to be, both had less than great chances at a life, but unlike Daniel, Ryan was never saved. No power of God ever came and cured his mother's drunkenness or stopped her boyfriends from beating him bloody. Except…now that Ryan thought about it…maybe he had. Maybe Sandy Cohen was his guardian angel in disguise.

Ryan smiled, but there was no humor in it. There rarely was when Chino was involved, but the thought of Sandy Cohen with a tiny halo and angel wings was amusing and if he had been safe in his pool house in Newport he would have laughed out loud. But, he wasn't in Newport. The dingy streets and broken down houses were proof of that. No bikini clad babes, no outrageously expensive cars, no preparatory schools, and no Cohen's. Welcome to Chino.

He was glad he'd sent Marissa home. When she had expressed an interest in his life before Ryan was both flattered and afraid. Sometimes being with Marissa Cooper felt unreal, like he was lost in the desert, dying of thirst, and she was the mirage that led him ever onwards. What if she saw where he came from and bolted? What if she learned of who Ryan really was? Or, at least, who he could be if given a chance. She had known he was bringing the stolen car to the thugs who currently held Trey's balls in a vice and the look of concern and disapproval she had given had nearly sent him running back to Newport with his tail between his legs. Still, regardless of how much Ryan wished it were different, he was an Atwood. He owed Trey this one last favor. He just hoped it didn't get him killed.

He pulled into the left hand lane and felt his heart lurch when he noticed a cop sitting in his car on the corner. Shit, shit, shit. If he was caught in this car it would mean the end of the Cohen's, the end of his future. He would probably die in juvenile detention even though the statistics of such a thing occurring were rare. He had the Atwood luck and a ferocious temper. Neither were very safe, but the combination of the two was devastating. Despite the idea of his death looming over him, the expression on Sandy's face when he received the call from the police made him feel even worse. Death had always been a part of Chino. Drive by shootings, drug overdoses, gang incidents, they were all a part of life. But someone being disappointed in him? That was entirely new.

His fingers tightened on the wheel as he cruised by, trying not to glance over at the cop. He stared straight ahead, willing the light to remain green so he could turn and be out of sight. No such luck. The light turned yellow and Ryan was forced to slide to a halt, a cold sweat making his skin clammy despite the California heat. He tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel and felt the pit in his stomach fighting to bring the juice he'd consumed earlier back up his throat. The light seemed to be taking forever to change. A whole slew of obscenities rampaged through his mind but his face remained in a neutral mask. He was good at that, good at lying about the chaos that was swirling beneath the surface, consuming him with its jagged, burning teeth.

The light finally turned and Ryan blew out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He pulled forward into the intersection, waiting for the line of cars to pass so he could turn, and frowned when he saw the cop put his car into gear in his rearview mirror. Suddenly, the lights were flashing and Ryan had to fight not to slam his foot on the gas pedal and get the hell out of dodge. Perhaps it wasn't for him, perhaps one of the cars whizzing by him had been going too fast. Maybe he would get out of this in one piece.

He wasn't sure if he was more shocked or relieved when the cruiser sped past him chasing down other prey. He watched the car's flashing lights get farther and farther away until someone honked behind him. Raising an apologetic hand, he turned down the next street relief quickly turning to anxiety as the body shop Trey had directed him to materialized before him. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his chest and he was sure that if he took his hands off the steering wheel they would be shaking like his mother's during withdrawal.

He'd never liked this side of Chino living. Crime had never been his first choice and though both Trey and his father seemed to hurtle towards it with all the speed of a runaway train Ryan was relieved he had been given the chance to gravitate away from it. And yet, here he was, riding down the street in a stolen car to meet with members of a gang his brother had gotten neck deep in. Life had finally given him oranges instead of lemons and he was about to throw all of that away.

Ryan pulled over to the side of the road, put the car in park, and dropped his head against the steering wheel. He could walk away from this whole thing; simply leave the car and sprint back to Newport as fast as his legs could carry him. He could hug Sandy and Kirsten and tell them his visit with Trey was uneventful. He could eat his first real Thanksgiving dinner in years and listen to Seth chatter away about whatever topic he'd become infatuated with that evening. It would be so easy to leave this life behind him forever, but he couldn't. Not at the expense of Trey.

When he hugged Sandy and Kirsten he would think of Trey hugging him close as a kid as they tried to ignore the sounds of their mother crying wretchedly through their closed room door. When he ate the turkey and the stuffing he would think of Trey trying desperately to come up with lunch money so that Ryan wouldn't go hungry at school. When he listened to Seth talk he would think of all the dreams Trey had confided in him when they used to sit on the roof of their tiny house in Fresno where they hid whenever Frank came home from the bar.

If Ryan didn't deliver he knew they would have Trey killed. It wasn't that hard to do and happened more frequently than people realized. He could try and explain this to the Cohen's, but they wouldn't understand. They would try and convince him that Trey would be safe behind bars and that there was no reason for Ryan to risk his future. They didn't know the horror stories he'd heard on the streets about fights breaking out in the exercise yard or some guard being paid off to slip a knife to an inmate on the inside. No, he had to do this and he had to do it alone. He couldn't stand it if someone from his new family was dragged down with him.

Ryan's fingers tightened convulsively on the steering wheel and he let out a low, choked sob. The sound surprised him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried and he promised himself that he wouldn't cry now. Besides, what would Seth say if he knew Kid Chino bawled like a baby. His whole image would be ruined and he didn't much feel like trying to have to find a new one. He had too many other things on his plate for that. He shook away the anger, the hurt, and the fear like he had so many times before and sat up straighter in his seat. Wiping his eyes of all traces of tears unshed, he put the car back into gear and slowly rolled down the street.

He set his face into a neutral mask of indifference as he turned into the alley of the body shop. The expression was a lie, had always been a lie, but Ryan had learned long ago that showing anything but general boredom with thugs like these led to gunshot wounds and busted skulls.

The street was wet and he could see oil shimmering upon the surface of a puddle. Tires were stacked on one side of him and there was a solid brick wall on the other. He didn't much care for the enclosed space, but he was already too far in to turn back. He continued forward a few more feet then stopped and put the car in park. Dogs barked somewhere ahead of him, but they were quickly lost in the pounding beat of the rap song playing in the garage.

Ryan looked up as a greasy man strolled casually in front of the car and tried to get a read on him as he made his way around. Cut off shirt, chain necklace that could do some real damage if ever used as a weapon, and the smug expression of a man who thought he was unbeatable. Ryan had seen his type before, but it made him no less cautious. In fact, it made him even more wary and his eyes followed the man as he stopped to stare at him from the passenger side of the car.

"You Ryan?" the man asked casually.

Ryan didn't say anything, but nodded once. There was something about this asshole that set his teeth on edge. The sooner they were done with this the better and suddenly Ryan ached to be home in Newport.

"This is a hot ride," the man said, taking Ryan's silence as permission to continue. "I'll tell you that. Hard to believe your brother could pull it off cause, uh, he's such a stupid son of a bitch."

Ryan didn't want to be sitting with no way to escape if something went down so he slowly got out of the car as the man talked. He grit his teeth as the thug insulted Trey, but he managed to keep control of his sudden surge of fury. He'd been getting better at that lately…not by much but baby steps, right?

"Yeah," Ryan muttered, changing the subject. "What do you think?"

The guy was getting closer to him and Ryan tensed. He didn't like this one bit, but he had to see it through for Trey. He tried to keep hold of his calm façade, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as the dickweed got in his face.

"What, huh?" the guy spat, slapping Ryan's shoulder. "What do I think about what?"

"Are we good?" Ryan asked, turning to face him so he could see if the guy tried to pull anything on him. "You take the car, Trey's off the hook."

"Huh," the guy muttered. "Is that the deal?"

Shit. This was not going the way Ryan had hoped it would, but he could hardly expect his newfound luck to remain forever. Eventually reality would see that Ryan had stopped pretending to belong to his Newport family and had returned to his life in Chino, an Atwood once more.

"That's what he told me," Ryan said cautiously.

"Huh," the guy said again. Ryan wished he would pick something more original, but there weren't many deep thinkers who chose stealing cars as their life's profession. "You guys hear that?"

The guy had leaned around him to address 'the guys' and Ryan's heart stopped. Plural. Plural was never good. Guy he could handle, but guys? Guys was bad, Guys was very, very bad. Sure enough, Ryan turned and was faced with two of grease man's goons. Both were large and he was sure that both were not strangers to breaking a few teeth.

"I've been waiting six months for this, alright?" the guy was telling him. "And there is something called interest."

"I don't have anything," Ryan muttered, knowing even as the words passed his lips that they would do him little good.

"Yeah," the man said, grabbing his jacket in his fists and swinging him around to slam into the chain-link fence. "Well, interest needs to be paid."

The first blow slammed into the side of Ryan's face like a freight train and his head snapped to the side. He didn't see the black SUV pull up, but he heard the frantic honking of its horn. The guy holding him glanced around to find the source of the noise and Ryan took his chance. Even as the guy returned his attention to him Ryan struck out with his elbow, smiling slightly when he heard the satisfying crunch of bone against bone. The man reeled back and Ryan slipped along the wall until he could sprint towards the car.

He was more than a little surprised to see Marissa staring at him from the driver seat, leaning over to open the door for him. What the hell was she doing here? He had sent her back to Newport for a reason and the thought of her seeing him get his ass kicked by the assholes behind him was almost too much to bear. The thought of her getting hurt because of his stupidity was even worse. Still, despite his frustration with her, he had never been happier to see anyone in his life. He dashed down the alleyway, fully prepared to jump in the SUV and get the hell out of dodge.

He would have reached it with ease, but halfway down the alley he tripped on a puddle of oil in the street. He came down hard on his back and the air immediately rushed from his lungs. He could feel the back of his shirt soaking up the puddle in the street, could hear his frantic heart urging him on, but he couldn't breathe. He rolled over and struggled to get to his feet, gasping and choking as he tried to get his lungs to work. Water dripped off him and he could hear Marissa screaming at him to hurry the hell up and run.

Finally, after what felt like hours, his lungs hitched and he was able to draw in a ragged breath of air. The oxygen seemed to return his senses somewhat and Ryan glanced behind him to see how far Tweedledumb and Tweedledee were in helping their master recover. The greasy mechanic was getting to his feet and Ryan knew he had to get out of there fast.

He was almost to Marissa and their getaway car when the first shot rang out. Ryan flinched back as he heard the bullet ping into a trashcan somewhere to his right and glanced back frantically. The greasy mechanic, face covered in blood from his nose, had pulled a gun from somewhere and was aiming it in Ryan's general direction.

The second shot slammed into the rear passenger side of the car with a wet sounding slap. Marissa screamed and Ryan could hear himself yelling at her to get her head down. He reached the door and was pulling himself into the car when he felt something punch into his left side. The momentum of whatever it was that had hit him sent him sliding forward awkwardly into the front seat. He didn't pause to see what the projectile might have been, he was pretty sure he knew anyways, and he barely managed to pull the door closed.

"Drive," he spat out between grit teeth.

Marissa stared at him uncomprehendingly from the driver's seat, eyes wide and pupils dilated in shock. She was frozen to the spot and Ryan had to fight with everything he had not to scream at her. His side was beginning to burn and he could feel blood sinking into his shirt.

"Marissa," Ryan said as calmly as he could. "I need you to listen to me, alright? I need you to drive us back to Newport. We'll be safe in Newport."

He could hear the thugs coming closer, wary of any firearms he and Marissa might have been carrying, but they were coming all the same. He didn't dare acknowledge the irony of his general distaste for guns. He might go crazy if he did. Oh wait, he already was.

"Marissa," Ryan groaned as his side throbbed nastily. "Please."

Suddenly the light came back to her eyes and she blinked once, twice, three times before homing in on the sight of Ryan sitting slumped in the front seat. His chest felt tight and it was difficult to draw enough air into his lungs, but she didn't need to know all that. Ryan shifted in his seat so she couldn't see his bloodied shirt.

"Drive," he told her again. "Get us out of here, Marissa."

She jumped when a bullet pinged against the car but it seemed to be the push she needed because he pressed down hard on the gas pedal, the tires screeching as they attempted to grip the asphalt. They jerked forward and were speeding down the street faster than a bat out of hell.

"It's okay," Marissa panted, once they had screeched around the corner. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

Ryan wasn't sure if she was assuring herself or trying to assure him. He hoped it was her because if the pain in his side was any indication he was anything but okay.


	2. Pumping Gas and Pumping Blood

"Are you okay?" Marissa Cooper asked him.

Ryan looked up at the sound of her voice and nodded wearily. She kept glancing at him and he wished she would stop. He was fine. He was more than fine, in fact. He was—

A wave of pain shattered his self-assurances like so much glass. He stifled a groan and shifted in his seat trying to find relief from the burning in his belly. It reminded him of the time he'd had appendicitis when he was eight. His mother had been gone, as usual, and Ryan was beside himself with pain. Trey had wrapped his brother's arm around his shoulders and half-dragged, half-carried him over to Theresa's house. Her mother had instantly packed him in the car and driven him to the hospital, holding his hand as she drove. Dawn hadn't arrived until the next morning and when she'd tried to hold Ryan's hand he'd pulled away from her. He hadn't wanted to sully the one memory he had of what a mother was supposed to be like.

"Ryan?" Marissa was calling, panic clear in her tone. "Ryan, what's wrong? Were you hurt?"

Ryan came back to himself with a start. The pain seemed reluctant to release its hold on him and he'd broken out into a cold sweat. It was strange, being so cold, but having what felt like a furnace in his side. He glanced down and would have cursed at the amount of blood puddled in the contours and grooves of the front seat if he had the strength. How he was going to pay for the car to be re-upholstered he had no idea.

"I'm fine," he mumbled to Marissa, realizing it had been a little while since she'd all but shouted at him. "Just a little scratch. Kirsten can bandage it up when we get home. She's good at that stuff, you know. My mother was never very good with blood or pain in general, I guess. And she wasn't very good at cooking either which reminds me of Thanksgiving dinner. We should hurry."

Ryan glanced over to see Marissa staring at him with mild alarm. He tried to remember what he had said to her, but the pain seemed to be blocking everything but the most basic functions. All he wanted to do was go home to his pool house, take a hot shower, eat dinner and sleep. He was sure that the wound on his side was superficial. It had to be. If the Cohen's ever found out what had happened today they would never forgive him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Marissa asked, looking at him suspiciously. "I've never heard you say so many words at one time. You sound funny."

"I'm fine," he repeated, managing to sit up in his seat. He could feel his blood soaking into the butt of his jeans and he grimaced. He'd really liked this pair and he wasn't going to allow Kirsten to buy him new ones. Besides, how exactly was he going to explain the dark red stains without giving himself up?

There were alarm bells ringing in the back of his head, screaming something about blood loss, shock, and organ damage but Ryan ignored them. He hadn't been shot, he hadn't been shot, he hadn't been shot. A lie, he knew, but perhaps if he repeated it enough times, the magical godmother he'd never known he had would suddenly materialize and make his wound disappear.

"Haven't been shot," he murmured, stomach lurching when he realized he'd said it out loud.

"What?" Marissa asked, glancing at him sharply.

"I said you need to stop," Ryan fibbed. "I need to go back and tell Trey it's done."

"Are you serious?" Marissa asked incredulously. "Ryan, we just got shot at. Doesn't that bother you? Tell Trey another time."

"Sure, it does," Ryan replied. "I just don't want to have to make another trip out here if I can help it. I need to get this over with."

Not entirely true, but Ryan needed to assess the damage the bullet had made without alerting Marissa to his plight. Marissa could drop him off at this gas station he knew and Ryan would slip into the bathroom to take care of what he needed to in order to buy him some time. He knew he was being stupid, knew he needed a hospital, but he couldn't go to the hospital without the nurses calling Sandy and Kirsten. They would find out that he'd gone back to his old ways and that would be that. He would lose another family, but this time it would be his fault. He couldn't bear the thought of that so he decided to wait and figure this mess out on his own. He'd done it before and he could do it again. Of course, the bullet wound was a little new, but apparently trying new things made you a well-rounded person.

"Are you sure about this?" Marissa asked him.

"I am," Ryan whispered. "I need to do this, Marissa. Please understand."

"I do understand. I just…I don't want to see you hurt."

Oh Marissa, Ryan thought. If you only knew.

"Yeah, I know but he's my brother. Family is family. You can drop me off at this gas station I know around the corner here. I will catch a ride home when I'm finished."

He knew the gas station very well. He'd been caught shoplifting there more than once, but he didn't mention this little tidbit to Marissa. He had chosen it because it offered him bathrooms off to the side of the station itself. He could find a way to send her into the gas station, clean the blood of the seat before she saw it, and book it to the bathroom before she got back. That was the plan, anyways.

"Turn right here," Ryan ordered Marissa tightly. "It's the first one on the left."

"Ryan," Marissa said softly. "You don't look so good. Maybe we should take you to the doctor. You could have gotten a concussion or something when that asshole hit you."

"No, I'm fine. Honestly. I just want to get this done and go home. If there is an issue we can deal with it there."

"Okay," Marissa whispered as they turned into the tiny station and parked. "I'll be right back. I'm going to get a snack before I go. I've heard eating something helps with nerves."

"Don't hurry on my account," Ryan said, holding his hand to his side.

She smiled at him and he watched her walk through the doors with guilt heavy on his heart. He hated lying to her, hated being the guy he'd sworn he wouldn't be, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Marissa couldn't know because Marissa had the car and would instantly drive him to the hospital no matter how hard he pleaded with her not to.

He waited a few seconds before opening the door. With a sickening lurch of gorge in his throat he watched as his blood dripped down the side of the seats and onto the pavement. As soon as he stood up he felt a wave dizziness slam into him and it was all he could do to remain upright. He held onto the door-frame for dear life, panting and nauseous with pain. Ok, so things were a little worse than he'd originally believed, but there was still no need to panic. No need to make any rash decisions.

He swallowed the urge to throw up and concentrated on cleaning the blood from the seat. He hadn't been sure how he was going to manage that part, but Marissa had given him the perfect out. He grabbed a beach towel he had stuffed underneath the seat after a day at the beach with Seth and mopped up as best he could. The most important part was the leather and he felt pretty secure about his job with it. If Marissa happened to glance at the carpet beneath his feet or at the side of seat it would all be over, but he highly doubted that would happen until she got home. He threw the towel in the trunk, wincing as the movement jostled his side. He couldn't wait any longer. He had to get out of here.

As soon as his vision settled and his head stopped spinning Ryan stumbled towards the bathroom, leaving the door wide open in his haste. He barely managed to open the door, partly because his hands were slick with blood, but partly because his limited surge of strength seemed to be failing him. An old homeless man on the other side of street watched him with interest and Ryan lifted his middle finger before disappearing through the door, slamming it shut and locking it behind him. He somehow made it to the sink and turned the faucet on high so he could groan out loud without anyone getting suspicious. He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped out a quick message to Marissa letting her know he was fine, but had to use the little boys room. He told her not to wait for him and that he'd see her at home. He could only hope she would listen.

Ryan gingerly lifted his shirt and eyed his blood-covered torso in distaste. He could barely make out the point of entry, but as soon as his finger grazed the bullet hole he knew for sure. His world was gone in a sheet of white pain and he whimpered as he slumped to the floor. The bullet had entered low down on his side and from what little Ryan could recall about human anatomy torn through the area where his liver should be. That was bad, wasn't it?

He couldn't remember for sure, but the pain was spreading rapidly through his stomach and groin and blood began to form in a puddle on the dirty bathroom floor. Ryan spotted an old towel contraption in the corner, one of the ones that had the cloth towel that revolved around each time a person dried their hands. He dragged himself towards it overly aware of the bloody smears he brought with him. Grasping the cloth, Ryan pulled and yanked the entire thing out of the wall. It crashed down on him and he put his hands over his head to keep it from knocking him out. It slammed down on his fingers and he cried out as his digits showed their distaste of his most recent assault. He could see blood welling up from a couple of cuts on his hands, but he could handle those later. For now he had to stop the blood from draining out of his side.

Ryan ripped a long piece of cloth from the container and held it firmly against his side. He choked down a scream as pain exploded through him all but knocking him out. Groaning was one thing, but screams would draw attention and he couldn't afford to—oh, who was he kidding? He needed help. He needed it badly. Tearing off more than he could chew seemed to be a common theme among the Atwood clan, but this was bringing it to a whole new level.

He slumped back against the wall, breathing heavily. He needed help, but he sure as hell wasn't going to call the police. He trusted them about as far he could throw them and in his semi-delirious state of mind his instincts won out over common sense. He had been in a Chino hospital more than once and he never wanted to do it again. He had insurance now, didn't he? He could afford to go to an actual hospital with doctors who cared about more than getting through to the next patient. No, he wasn't going to call the police, but he was loathe to call the one person he knew could help him because it meant giving up a home. Still, if Ryan died he wouldn't have a family and he would hurt the Cohen's so, with shaking fingers, he reached into his jeans pocket and flipped open his phone.

Marissa had answered him. 'Okay. Be careful and see you soon. Don't worry…this will be our little secret.' He smiled weakly and thought about calling her, but she wasn't who he needed in that moment. He needed his father. He needed Sandy. Ryan dialed the number and held the phone up to his ear with shaking hands. He could smell his blood on his hands and the metallic odor made him dizzy.

The phone rang four times before Sandy actually answered. Ryan couldn't describe the relief that flooded through him at the sound of his voice.

"Ryan," Sandy greeted warmly. "Boy, am I glad you called. You need to get your ass back here. Things are turning pretty ugly, but what can you expect when Caleb is involved? I'll tell you, Ryan, just once I wish I could let you kick his—"

"Sandy," Ryan interrupted weakly. "Sandy, stop."

It was a testament to the kind of father Sandy was that he realized the second he heard Ryan's voice that something was wrong. Ryan's own father or mother would have had to see him collapse from blood loss before they even acknowledged he was hurt.

"Ryan?" Sandy said questioningly. "Kid, are you alright? You sound funny."

"I've been better," Ryan laughed slightly, alarmed when he felt blood fleck his lips. "Sandy, I might be in a bad situation here."

"Okay, kid," Sandy said soothingly. "Just don't do anything stupid. I'll come get you and we can figure it out."

"Too late for that," Ryan whispered. "Sandy, how much blood can someone lose before they die?"

"What? Ryan, what the hell are you talking about?"

"You should ask Seth," Ryan slurred. "I bet he would know. He knows everything."

"Ryan," Sandy said loudly, fear evident in his voice. "Come on, kid. You need to tell me where you are and what happened. I'm getting in the car right now."

Ryan heard the car door slam and the jingle of keys being put into the ignition. His mind was beginning to get fuzzy and the pool of blood surrounding him was no longer as alarming. He was just so damn cold.

"Ryan," Sandy said again. "Tell me where the hell you are."

"A bathroom," Ryan answered. "At a gas station in Chino. A Phillips 66, I think. Its on the corner of—"

The air caught in Ryan's throat and before he knew what was happening he was coughing, dark arterial blood coming up his throat. He slumped over sideways and watched as red stained the white tiles in flecks and drops. When he was finally done he was sweating profusely and shivering. His side ached more fiercely than it ever had before and Ryan put his head on the cool tiles and cried for the first time in years.

Faintly, and coming to him as if through a long tunnel, he heard Sandy shouting his name through the speaker of the phone he'd dropped during his coughing fit. He reached out his hand and managed to grab it with clumsy fingers, bringing the speaker up to his ear.

"Sandy," he gasped. "Sandy, please. I need help."

"I know," Sandy whispered. "Listen to me, kid. How bad are you hurt?"

"Hurt?" Ryan said, closing his eyes. "I wasn't hurt, Sandy. I was shot."

He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. He could imagine the lawyer's bushy eyebrows go wide in shock before falling to crease in worry. He heard Kirsten beside him asking what he'd said.

"Kirsten is there?" Ryan asked, surprised.

"Ryan, where were you shot?"

"In my side," Ryan said. "My left side. I—shit, this hurts."

"I know, kid. Stay with me all right? Your mother called the police. They are on their way."

"No police," Ryan mumbled. "I can't go back, Sandy."

"You're not going anywhere, kid. Not if I can help it."

"I thought you'd hate me," Ryan slurred. "I thought you'd never talk to me again and I would die alone. I don't want to die alone."

"Nobody is dying," Sandy said sharply. "Just keep talking to me, kid. When did this happen? After Marissa dropped you off?"

"No," Ryan whispered. "Before. But she didn't know. I lied to her just like I lied to you."

"It's fine," Sandy said urgently. "Ryan, its fine. Whatever you did we can work through it."

"No," Ryan gurgled. "You don't know, Sandy. You don't know what I did."

"Ryan. Ryan, can you hear me?"

Kirsten. Ryan opened his eyes.

"Kirsten?"

"I'm here, Ryan. We're all here. We're coming for you."

"Why? I'm not—I'm not—Kirsten, there is so much blood."

His thoughts were becoming fragmented. It was all he could to keep his eyes open and talking suddenly seemed like walking uphill in sand. His vision was going from color to black and white and the pain was building to a blinding crescendo that would break over him and send him spiraling into darkness.

He could feel tears running down his cheeks and his shoulders shook as he cried. This wasn't the way he'd wanted to go out. This was the Atwood way, the Chino way. This was the future he'd tried so hard to avoid, this was the prediction his mother had made to him so many times. He had wished for a better life, but his request had been denied.

"Don't tell Seth I cried," Ryan rasped. "Bad boy Chino is my thing. He'd be—he'd be crushed, Kirsten."

"Seth will be fine," Kirsten said gently. "Ryan, whatever happens stay on the phone. Keep talking."

"Right," Ryan snorted weakly, managing some last minute humor. "Cause that's always been my thing."

"Funny," Kirsten said. "Who knew Ryan Atwood could be funny?"

"I had my funny bone broken when I was six," Ryan slurred.

"Two in a row? The world really is coming to an end."

"Mine is," Ryan whispered.

"Don't. Don't you dare give up on me, Ryan. I have given up too much to let you slip away from me."

"I make everything harder," Ryan said, eyes drooping. "I make everything—"

"No," Kirsten interrupted him. "You don't, Ryan. You have brought so much joy into our lives. You are a member of the family. You're a Cohen."

"A Cohen," Ryan whispered.

"We love you, Ryan. Just stay with us."

But he couldn't stay. He just couldn't. No matter how hard he tried to keep his eyes open, no matter how much he wanted to tell Kirsten he would try for her, his body betrayed him. The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered to the tiles, but Ryan couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear anything but the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins. He was cold, so cold, but the pain had vanished and Ryan felt relieved. He gave in readily to the darkness, to the pain free world of his dreams.

Kirsten shouted his name over and over through the speakers, but no answer came to her. Only the harsh rasp of Ryan's breath in his throat and then…only silence.


	3. Casualties of War

**Author's Note: **_Okay, longest chapter of my life. I hadn't meant for it to be quite this long, but here it is. As always reviews would be appreciated._

Marissa Cooper was sitting on the side of the road just outside of Chino when her phone rang. She sighed and rolled her eyes. There was only one person it could be and Marissa wasn't in the mood to talk to her. She was furious with her mother and if Julie couldn't give her space then Marissa would just have to take it. Thanksgiving was a time for family and at the moment Marissa's had never felt farther from her.

If Ryan Atwood hadn't come into her life she doubted she would have managed the past few months alone. The fact that he had saved her from an overdose was not lost on her but it was more than that. Ryan had been her anchor; somebody she knew would be there no matter what she did because Kid Chino had seen it all before. There was no judgment in his eyes, no awkward glances, or pointed whispers and sniggers in the hallway. And she offered him the same. Who he was or what he did before he came to Newport didn't matter to her. He liked to act invincible, but Marissa saw through that the first time she'd met him. His eyes, such expressive pools of blue, gave everything away.

Which was why she was sitting by the side of the road. Something was wrong. She knew it, but for the life of her couldn't figure out what it was. Ryan had never been much of a talker and in their car ride to the gas station he'd been more tight lipped than ever. Not alarming by itself, she knew. Especially considering the day he'd had. Walking down memory lane was never easy, but for Ryan it had to be down right agonizing. She hadn't really understood how much he'd been through until today, how much he had been forced to deal with on his own. It made her own life seem easy and breezy in comparison.

Still, there had been something more to his silence today. She hadn't missed the way he'd winced whenever she hit a pothole or a speed bump. And she certainly hadn't missed the fine sheen of sweat that had broken out across his skin nor the way his hand kept straying to his left side. But, she hadn't seen anything wrong with him. There hadn't been any blood as far as she could see and he'd obviously managed to get out of the car all right. Maybe he'd cracked a rib or something. Marissa imagined a cracked rib would be painful, but surely it wasn't serious. Surely it would be an easy fix.

Suddenly, Marissa wasn't so sure and had to fight the urge to turn the car around and find Ryan. She wouldn't do that. She couldn't do that. He'd asked her to let him do this on his own and she had to respect his wishes, even if she hated it. Ryan was a smart kid. Smart enough to seek out help if he needed it, especially for something as explainable as a cracked rib. There was nothing suspicious in an injury like that. It could have happened anywhere; no reason for a doctor to think he'd been injured in a fight. He'd wrap his ribs for a few weeks and that would be that.

Except the nagging wouldn't go away. She tried to run through the sequence of events in her mind to see if she could remember where Ryan might have sustained such an injury. She had pulled up right as the greasy mechanic had swung Ryan around and slammed him into the chain link fence. It could have happened there, she supposed, but it didn't fit. Ryan hadn't cried out, hadn't even grimaced at the mistreatment. Surely cracking a rib would elicit some kind of response from her boyfriend. He wasn't Superman and, as much as Seth would argue with her, he wasn't made of steel either. The only other blow the thugs had gotten in was the punch to Ryan's face and that certainly wouldn't have caused damage to his ribs. So, unless he'd been hit before she'd pulled up, she had to rule out her cracked rib theory.

Her cellphone rang again and Marissa grit her teeth. She didn't want to have to deal with this at the moment, but Julie Cooper was not a woman who took rejection well. It would be easier facing her over the phone anyways instead of facing her in person. If she looked at her mother she wasn't sure she'd be able to keep from slapping her across the face. She had never been a violent woman before, but things changed. Maybe Ryan was rubbing off on her.

She rummaged through her purse and pulled the phone from the front pocket. Looking down at the number caused her to pause. That wasn't Julie Cooper's number. That was Kirsten's. Why was Kirsten Cohen calling her? The little flame of worry in her belly kindled into a full fire, but she ignored it. Just because Kirsten was calling her didn't mean that anything was wrong. Maybe Ryan had dropped his phone and she wanted to know where they were but couldn't reach him. Or maybe he just didn't feel like answering. Both were feasible. Still, her hand shook as she flipped the phone open and put the speaker to her ear.

"Hello?" she said quietly. "Kirsten?"

"Marissa," Kirsten whispered. "Thank God. Where are you?"

"I'm right outside of Chino. Why?"

"The gas station where you dropped Ryan off. I need you to tell me where it is."

"Did you talk to Ryan?" Marissa asked. "I didn't think he would call you guys, but—"

"Marissa," Kirsten interrupted. "Please. Where is the gas station?"

"It was off Riverside," Marissa stammered. "I think. Why? Is something wrong?"

"Its Ryan," Kirsten said, close to tears. "He's hurt. Bad, I think. Sandy is on the phone with him now. I need to call an ambulance. Give me a second, Marissa. I'll call you back when I can."

And with that she was gone leaving only a disconnected tone in her wake. Marissa's heart had stopped. Ryan was hurt and she'd left him. Like an idiot she had trusted him instead of trusting her instincts. She could hear her breathing pick up, short panicked breaths that left her head swimming. She needed to calm down. She looked over at the half-eaten blueberry muffin she'd picked up from the gas station, but quickly dismissed it. It wouldn't do jack shit for her now. No, she needed something stronger. She had no alcohol and even if she had she wouldn't have allowed herself a sip because she knew that a sip would turn into two or three giant gulps. What would Ryan say if he ever found out she'd gotten wasted in his hour of need? The only other thing she had was the pack of cigarettes she knew Ryan hid in the little compartment on the passenger side door. A little nicotine would have to do the trick until Kirsten called back and told her what the hell was going on.

She opened the car door and put her feet on the asphalt. She didn't like the way her knees shook, but she took a deep breath and managed to walk around the car without falling over. Life was all about baby steps and Marissa had taken more of them today than she had her whole life. She almost cried in relief when she made it to the passenger side door throwing it open with the desperation of the dying.

Marissa never got her cigarette. She didn't even try as the scene before her scratched itself into her memory forever. Blood. Lots of blood. It had dried on the leather seat in little speed drips and if the smears around the curve of the seat were any indication Ryan had tried to wipe it off. It caked the carpet, the fibers turned brittle and crusty, and Marissa barely had time to turn to the side before the blueberry muffin and her lunch splattered all over the blacktop.

How could he have hid this from her? How could she have missed this? She had been so frightened and shell-shocked after their escape from the alley that she hadn't even thought about the way he'd entered the car. Now that she did, however, the pieces began to fit. Ryan had been halfway into the vehicle when he'd suddenly jerked forward, letting out an explosive breath, and sprawling into the front seat. She remembered the look on his face in that moment. The horrified recognition that had swept across it for the briefest moment before being replaced with his customary lack of expression.

"Oh God," she groaned. "Ryan, what the hell were you thinking?"

Surely he had realized the trouble he was in from the beginning. He had proved time and time again that he wasn't stupid and even the dumbest of men would know that a gunshot wound was bad. Marissa couldn't understand why he would lie to her, why he would try and hide something so serious from the girl that was supposed to be her girlfriend.

She shook her head. There wasn't time for thoughts. Ryan was in trouble and Marissa had to help him. She knew the last place he'd been and come hell or high water she was going to find him. And, if the bullet hadn't already done the job for her, she was going to kill him for lying to her. For putting her through this.

Marissa didn't even realize she was driving until somebody honked at her for swerving in front of them. She couldn't remember putting the keys in the ignition or pressing the gas pedal to the floor until the speedometer read eighty and counting. She must have blown through three or four stoplights and the fact that she wasn't pulled over or killed was a miracle in and of itself. She just wished that God, or whoever was pulling the strings up above, would stop favoring her and start favoring Ryan. The kid needed a little luck more than anyone she knew.

Marissa's phone rang and she almost crashed into a red Mustang in her haste to answer.

"Kirsten?" Marissa cried. "What is going on? Is he okay?"

"I don't know," Kirsten said. Her voice was thick, like she was crying. "He was talking to me and then…he wouldn't answer me, Marissa. I couldn't hear him breathing."

"I am on my way there," Marissa heard herself saying as if through a tunnel. "Where was he?"

"In the bathroom," Kirsten answered tiredly. "We called an ambulance. They are on their way, but the closest hospital is thirty minutes away."

Marissa had never heard Kirsten's voice so hopeless and void of life. The woman had always been a statue of strength in Marissa's eyes and for that to be crumbling before her was more than she could bear. She hadn't known that Ryan meant so much to her. She didn't think Ryan knew either.

"I'll be there in five," Marissa said. "I'll find him, Kirsten. I'll—I'll—I don't know what I am going to do, but I am not going to let him die. I promise, Kirsten."

She shouldn't have promised something like that. She knew the second the words left her lips that she had made a mistake. If Ryan was as far gone as Kirsten said he was how could she possibly hope to do anything but comfort him while they waited for the paramedics to arrive? And if he died? God, Marissa wouldn't be able to handle that. She wouldn't be able to sit there and watch him leave her forever, but what other choice did she have? She couldn't leave him to face his fate alone. Not when he'd faced everything else with nobody to hold his hand or comfort him in his times of weakness.

Marissa could see the giant Phillips 66 sign up ahead. Her heart threatened to climb up her throat, but she swallowed hard and set her fear aside for another time. Ryan needed her and she wasn't going to fail him.

"I'm here," she told Kirsten. "I am going to find him and I'll call you as soon as I can."

"I can't lose him," she heard Kirsten whisper. "Not now. Not after he has brought my family back to life. He means too much."

"I know," Marissa said. "I know, Kirsten. He's brought me back to life to."

"Tell him I love him," Kirsten choked out. "Tell him I said Sandy was right about him. He'll know what it means."

"I will," Marissa promised. "I'll tell him, Mrs. Cohen. Ryan is strong. He can make it through this. And now he has a reason to. A family to come home to."

She heard Kirsten break down on the other end of the line and she knew their conversation was over. There was nothing Kirsten could do for Ryan at the moment and talking about it was only making an unexpected situation more of a reality. She understood that. Hell, she wished she could do the same thing, but she couldn't. This was her moment. This was the moment she had to grow up, not because she wanted to, but because someone depended on her to do so. Maybe that was what being an adult was all about; giving up an easier, more gratuitous life for something harsh and real because the ones you love need you. Which made her wonder if her mother had grown up at all and if Ryan had ever been anything other than an adult trapped in a kid's body.

She remembered the day on the pier they had spent together when Ryan had first arrived in Newport. She remembered the way his smile had been so timid in the beginning, like he was scared he was lost in a dream and would be forced to wake at his most vulnerable moment. The day went on and his smile grew until, finally, Marissa caught a glimpse of the young man he could have been had life been kinder. She watched him take pleasure in things Marissa took for granted everyday of her life and how something as simple as riding his bike up and down the pier with her and Seth lifted a burden from his shoulders she doubted he even knew he was carrying.

Seth, the unnervingly sweet but self-absorbed boy she hadn't given a second thought until Ryan arrived, talked about him as if he were a modern day Hercules. It was clear that Seth worshipped the very ground Ryan walked upon and would do anything short of murder if Ryan asked it of him. Marissa and Cohen had very few conversations that had involved anything other than his infatuation with Summer, but the ones that managed to escape his puppy love had been about Ryan. Seth had warned her more times than she could count that if she were to ever hurt him he would…well, he never actually got to the threat. It usually ended with him mumbling something Marissa couldn't understand and vacating the premises as fast as his legs could carry him, but the thought was there. The fact that Cohen had tried more than once to let her know of his loyalty to the bad boy from Chino made her realize just how serious Seth was. He may not be able to say the words to her, but she knew that if she were to mess things up with Ryan he would find a way to make her life miserable. She never bothered to tell him that if Ryan disappeared from her life she would be an empty shell anyways.

She wondered if Ryan knew the effect he had on people. She highly doubted it. Ryan never seemed to think much of himself and she wondered why. It was a question she would never ask him because she feared what his answer would be. Seeing Ryan on somebody's fridge dressed as Snoopy was one thing because it allowed her the illusion that maybe some small part of Ryan's life wasn't all bad, but the answer to that question could derail that small glimmer of hope she had. Seth had told her a few of the things Ryan had told him when he thought his adoptive brother wasn't listening and all of them had brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

She wanted to hold him close to her and tell him she was there, but she knew this would push him away. Ryan didn't like to be touched almost as much as he didn't like to talk. Intimacy was difficult for him and she thought it always would be. Lustful make-out sessions on the pool house bed were easy. Lust required nothing of him and he could make it feel like heaven, but Marissa knew, even as her hands twined in his hair and her lips moved against his, that he was putting nothing of himself into the kiss. There was heat and passion, but no Ryan. Sometimes he kissed her with the desperation of a man dying of thirst and she was the water and Marissa wondered what was going through his head in those moments. It was another question she would never ask, another part of the Atwood puzzle she would have to wait to piece together.

She had no doubt that he wanted to be with her. Those eyes told her everything she needed to know, but sometimes that wasn't enough. Marissa wanted Ryan to trust her like she trusted him, wanted him to confide in her the way she confided in him. She wanted it, but knew it would never happen. Not yet, anyways. He'd been burned one too many times for that. Even Seth had mentioned his general reluctance to tell the youngest Cohen anything too personal. The fact that Ryan had even mentioned Trey to her had been surprising, but she could see how much it cost for him to do so, how much it hurt to share his pain with her.

Now, however, his pain was real, was tangible. She might not be able to help bear the weight of Ryan's past, but she could help bear the pain of his present. She could comfort him like she'd always wanted to comfort him and hold him like she'd wanted to since they first met. It was all Marissa had to offer him, all Ryan would let her offer him, but she would offer it willingly and with all the love she possessed. If she could give her life for his she would and if she could take his pain away, even for a moment, she would not hesitate. She just hoped he was alive when she found him.

The gas station was suddenly looming in front of her and Marissa didn't even bother to the check if the lanes were clear before swerving into the parking lot. She was met with a chorus of angry horns and furious middle fingers, but she didn't care. Ryan needed her and Ryan was all she cared about. She cut off a black Pinto as she screeched into a parking space and as she got out of the SUV a guy with tattoos and piercings was there to meet her.

"What the hell are you doing," he screamed at her. "God damn bitch. That was my fucking spot."

Marissa spared him a glance, but she had no time to deal with him. She turned her back on him and stepped towards the bathroom stalls, but felt the guy's clammy hand grip her shoulder. She tried to yank away but his grip was like steel and she could feel his fingers digging cruelly into her skin.

"Let me go," she hissed. "Get off of me."

"Give me my fucking spot and I will," the guy spat, his breath reeking of what smelled like sewage.

Marissa frantically looked around her for support, for someone to help her, but nobody was even looking at her. The two or three people filling up their cars kept their eyes to the ground and she realized she was on her own. If Ryan were here the asshole bruising her arm would be laid flat already, but Ryan wasn't here to rescue her this time. He was dying in the bathroom fifteen feet away from her. She would have to rescue herself.

"What do you say, bitch?" the guy growled, pulling her close. "Move the car and I'll let you go. Or…"He moved close to her and she felt his other hand wandering up her thigh. "We could come up with some other form of payment if you're game."

Marissa felt like retching. How could people sit by and do nothing? Had they done this to Ryan? Seen him pale and bleeding and done nothing? She struggled in the tattoo guy's arms, but his grip only tightened.

"Please," she begged. "My friend is hurt. I have to help him, just let me go."

"All the more reason for you to just do what I say," the guy purred in her ear.

"Fine," she spat. "I'll move the damn car. Just get off of me."

"I think we're beyond that now," the guy murmured. "I think we'll have to settle on some other means of payment. You smell pretty."

"That's sweet," Marissa hissed, pulling out the can of pepper spray she kept in her purse with her free hand. "But you smell like ass."

She pulled the trigger and was shocked by the copious amount of spray that the little can released. The second it reached the guy's eyes and nose he reared back and screamed, his screech so high that it threatened to shatter the gas station windows. He fell to his knees as he frantically tried to scrub the stinging, burning spray from his eyes, but only made it that much worse. Marissa would have liked to watch the asshole writhe a little longer, but she had to get to Ryan.

Leaving the peppered dickweed rolling around the asphalt, she bolted towards the bathrooms. She ripped the door open, but nobody was there. She could smell the festering shit and an underlying breeze of bleach that somebody had attempted to clean the bathroom with, but there was no blood, no sign that anyone had even been in there recently. Marissa yelled out in frustration before she realized that the bathroom she was in had no urinals. She was in the wrong fucking bathroom.

She backtracked and went around the side of the building, pausing only when she found Ryan's bloody handprint on the white plaster wall. Her stomach lurched and threatened to revolt inside her, but she swallowed a couple of times and the feeling subsided. The handprint smeared all the way down the wall until it reached the door and she could imagine Ryan supporting himself against the plaster, one bloodied hand on the wall and one wrapped protectively around his middle. And still nobody had thought to help him.

Rage filled her and gave her the armor she needed for what she was going to do. She could not be weak in his moment of need, could not cry when he needed a hand to hold. She made her way to the bathroom door and tried not to cringe as she wrapped her fingers around the bloodied handle. She could feel it, sticky and warm, as it coated the underside of her fingers. The feeling brought her fear bubbling back up, but she put it aside. There would be more blood, she knew. More than she would ever care to see.

Marissa yanked hard on the handle, expecting it to fly open, but it remained closed. She stared at it, dumbfounded for a moment, before she realized what Ryan had done. He'd locked the damn door. She couldn't understand it. Why was he going to such great lengths to make sure that nobody could help him? Why would he run knowing that he needed help? Why would—

Then it hit her. He was scared. That was what this was all about. It had to be. He was scared that he would ruin what he'd created with the Cohen's. He was scared that he would never be able to escape the future that had awaited him if he had remained in Chino. Ryan, with all of his distrust and his heartache, could not see the love the Cohen's felt for him. He could not understand his worth or see how he could ever become a valued member of a family. He had finally found something worth living for, worth bettering himself for, and he was terrified he was going to lose it.

She had to get the bathroom door open or at least find a way to get inside. She looked around her but there were no windows. She realized she would have to go back to the gas station and get the clerk to open the door for her. She would have to face tattoo guy again, but with any luck he was still trying to rip his eyes out in the hopes of relieving the burning sinking its way into his skull.

Whirling around she bolted back to the gas station and was relieved to find the tattoo guy nowhere to be found. She had no idea how he had managed to get off the concrete, but at the moment she didn't care. All she cared about was getting that damn door open. The gas station doors opened with a whoosh of cold air, manufactured by the AC rumbling somewhere behind the station itself. The clerk, a young man in his early twenties, didn't even look at her but remained focused on counting out a burly gentleman's change with the concentration of one who was not entirely comfortable with his math skills. To his credit, the burly man waited patiently and he glanced at Marissa. She saw kindness in his eyes and for the first time since her nightmare had started she felt relief sweep through her.

"Please," she said, going up to the counter. "Please, I need your help. My boyfriend...he was…he's hurt. He went into your bathroom but the door is locked. I need the key."

"Sorry," the clerk said slowly, looking up at her. "Boss says I can't give the key out for any reason."

"What?" Marissa gasped, disbelief threatening to overwhelm. "He's dying! Please, I need to get in there and help him. The ambulance is on its way, but it might be too late."

"I understand," the clerk began. "But I can't—"

"I don't think you do understand," the burly man rumbled. "The lady says her friend is hurt. So you are going to give her the keys."

"She could be lying," the clerk said stubbornly. "She could be an addict looking for a place to shoot up or something. I don't know, but I have to follow policy. I can't get fired."

"I'm not lying," Marissa said, holding up her blood stained hand. "Please, I swear I'm not lying."

"Shit," the clerk breathed, paling as he looked at her palm. "Shit, I—I don't—"

"Give her the keys," the burly man said gently. "Come on, kid. This ain't any time to be panicking."

Marissa almost melted with relief when she saw the clerk turn and grab a single key from a peg on the back wall. Its yellowing key tag read _RESTROOM _in giant black letters and it swayed on its key ring as he handed it to her.

She was out the door before he could say anything to her and was fitting the key into the lock when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned to find the burly man standing a few feet away from her, his bulging arms full of what looked like clean dishtowels and a large red box that had _The Ultimate Medi-Kit _scrawled across the top.

"What are you doing?" Marissa asked him warily, her experience with tattoo guy fresh on her mind.

"I'm helping," burly man replied calmly. "This isn't my first rodeo kid. I was a combat medic for the marines. Trust me, I've seen some shit. I may not be able to do much for your friend but I have steady hands and enough know-how to keep him breathing."

Marissa didn't bother telling him that Ryan could already be dead, but she wasn't going to turn down the help. She looked back at the gas station once and saw the clerk standing out in front watching her. It was clear he wouldn't be coming over to help, but that didn't matter now. Turning back to burly man, she nodded once and turned the key in the lock, pulling the door open with more force than she realized. She stumbled back slightly, but the burly man put his large hand on her back to steady her. She didn't stop to thank him all but running into the bathroom.

The first thing she noticed was the blood. It was everywhere. She didn't think there could be so much blood in a single human body. Red smeared the wall, the doors, the sink, the mirror. Everywhere. She choked back a cry and looked frantically for Ryan.

At first, she didn't see him slumped behind the sink, but the moment her eyes found his limp hand she rushed forward and fell to her knees beside him. She felt something sinking into her pant leg and she realized that she'd fallen in a puddle of blood the circumference of a soccer ball. Jesus, there was so much. How could he lose this much and still be—

She shook that thought away before it took root in her mind. She wouldn't give up on him yet. He wouldn't give up on her.

Suddenly the burly man was beside her and before she had a chance to protest he was gently picking Ryan up and turning him over. She wanted to scream at him and push his hands away, but she maintained control. He was trying to help and if it gave Ryan a chance than she needed to let him do what he had to. Ryan's shirt was almost completely red and she searched the slick fabric for the tiny hole she knew she would find there. Sure enough, smaller than she had thought it would be, was a hole where the bullet had entered him.

Burly man was speaking to her, but she couldn't hear him. All she could do was stare at the hole that seemed so inadequate to the damage that was caused. Suddenly, his hands were on her shoulders and he shook her gently. She looked to her left and found Ryan propped against the wall, his head dropped forwards on his chest.

"Kid," burly man said to her. "Your friend is alive, but he ain't gonna be for long if I don't try and stop this bleeding. I can't do this alone, you understand? I need you to hold it together for a little longer. You think you can do that for me?"

"Yes," Marissa whispered, closing her eyes and opening them again with new resolve. "Just tell me what to do."

"Good," the burly man grunted. "I need to sit him up while I try and get a handle on the bleeding. Sit against the wall there and let him rest against you. Make sure you keep his head up. I don't like the sound of his breathing and I don't want him to choke. Can you do that?"

Marissa nodded, watching as burly man gripped Ryan under his arms and dragged him around so that he could lie between her legs, head resting against her chest. She put a hand around his chest, partly to keep him from slipping but partly because she drew comfort from the rise and fall of his chest, labored as it was. The burly man sat on his knees and lifted Ryan's legs over his so that they angled downwards. She'd read about this once and remembered that it helped increase blood flow to the heart. Then she thought about what the burly man said and furrowed her brows in confusion.

"You said choke," she mumbled. "What could he choke on? He's not—" The burly man glanced up at her, eyes unreadable and Marissa gulped when the answer hit her. "Oh."

Blood. He was talking about Ryan choking on his own blood. She didn't think things like that actually happened. She'd seen stuff like that in movies, but it had always been make believe, always something that had made her roll her eyes at the cheesiness of it all. And now it was all too real. She doubted she would ever watch another movie again.

Burly man seemed to sense her rising panic because he looked up at her while he unfolded one of the dishtowels.

"Don't worry, kid," he told her. "He's going to be just fine. We've just got to keep him breathing until the paramedics get here. You do your job and we'll make it through."

Marissa nodded, overcome with emotion, and put her lips against Ryan's hair, clutching him tighter against her. The burly man turned back to his patient, pulling a pair of scissors from the medi-pack. She watched as he took Ryan's beloved wifebeater between his fingers and slipped the fabric into the blades. He calmly shredded the shirt and pulled it to the side, grimacing as he pulled something sticky with blood away from the wound.

"What is it?" Marissa asked.

"He tried to stop the bleeding," burly man said quietly.

"That's a good thing though," Marissa said. "Right?"

"It would be if he hadn't used a cloth bathroom towel," the burly man replied.

"I don't understand," Marissa stammered. "A cloth is a cloth. What does it matter where it came from?"

"These things are covered in bacteria," burly man grunted, glancing over at the broken towel dispenser laying discarded in the far corner. "Blood loss and liver damage is bad enough, but you add an infection and it becomes—" He must have seen the horror on her face because he stopped and tried to smile encouragingly at her. "Well, lets just deal with one problem at a time, ok?"

Liver damage. Burly man had said liver damage. Shit, why hadn't she put her foot down on letting him go? Why hadn't she checked on him when she'd gotten his text about using the bathroom? She should have waited on him, should have insisted he see a doctor. Marissa frowned. She should have done a lot of things, but it was too late for that now. All she could was hold him tight and pray to a God she wasn't sure she believed in anymore.

Burly man unfolded a clean towel and pressed it firmly against Ryan's side. It was almost instantly covered in red, but instead of releasing his grip the burly man pressed harder. To Marissa's surprise Ryan shifted in her arms as if trying to escape the pressure burly man's hands were exerting. She looked down at his face and nearly cried out in relief as she watched his eyes flicker open. They were glazed from pain and slightly unfocused, but they were open and Marissa didn't think she'd ever seen anything more beautiful.

But, Ryan didn't seem to recognize her. He tried to pull away from her and when he couldn't he reached his hands up to the arm draped around his chest and tried to pull her off of him. His breathing quickened and she could hear him whimper beneath his breath.

"You've got to keep him still," burly man barked. "Talk to him. Calm him down. I can't hold this towel down if he's fighting me."

"Ryan," Marissa breathed in his ear. "Ryan, its okay. It's me. It's Marissa. Can you hear me, Ryan?"

Ryan's body went limp in her arms and for a moment Marissa thought he'd passed out again. Then his hand reached up and wrapped around her arm, but he was no longer trying to pull it off of him. Instead he seemed to be anchoring himself to it and she could feel him relax against her, allowing her to pull his head back until it rested against her cheek.

"Marissa," he rasped. "What are you doing here?"

She was shocked at how weak his voice was and tried to ignore that he sounded like he was trying to speak to her with water in his mouth, tried to ignore how wet his words sounded when they fell from his lips. She didn't want to think about blood running down his chin and lips or how horrible the salty taste of iron in his mouth must be.

"I came back for you," Marissa whispered. "I came back to get you."

Burly man took the blood-drenched towel away from Ryan's side, unfolded another, and pressed it back again. This time Ryan jerked against her, teeth biting down on an agonized scream, and his grip on her arm tightened until it was almost painful. He sucked in a wheezing breath, but it sounded wet even to Marissa's ears, and she braced herself for what she knew was coming. His breath caught in his throat and he coughed trying to clear his airway. She felt hot blood pepper her arm and Marissa winced. She tried to keep him still as he choked and spluttered and she rubbed his chest in gentle circles. She knew Ryan choking on his own blood would be a nightmare that would plague her for years and she was thankful she couldn't see him very well.

"It hurts," he coughed after he'd managed to catch his breath. "I can't do this, Marissa. It hurts too much."

"Don't you give up on me," she ordered him. "Not after you've bled all over my last clean shirt."

This drew an exhausted laugh from him and she smiled slightly. His hand slid across her arm until it reached hers and she entwined her fingers in his. She felt his head move as he looked over at burly man who was still pressing the towel firmly into his side.

"Who?" he asked, too exhausted to say anything more.

"I-I don't know," Marissa whispered, realizing she didn't know burly man's name.

"John," the man grunted. "I'm a friend."

"You sure about that?" Ryan whispered, closing his eyes. "Feels more like a butcher to me."

"A butcher handles dead things," John said with a small smile. "And I have news for you, kid. You ain't dead yet."

Ryan didn't say anything and his grip on Marissa's hand slackened until she was holding limp fingers. She watched as John frowned and lifted a blood slick hand and snapped his fingers in Ryan's face.

"Hey," he shouted. "Kid, look at me. Wake up." Ryan must have opened his eyes because John smiled. "That's it, Ryan. Keep your eyes open."

"I'm tired," Ryan mumbled. "I just want to sleep."

"I know," John said gently. "I know, kid, but you can't. Not yet. It's a miracle we got you conscious again. Miracles don't happen twice."

"Not unless your Jesus," Ryan slurred.

"True," John conceded as he pressed another clean towel to Ryan's side. "You may not believe it, kid, but somebody up there is on your side."

"No," Ryan murmured weakly. "I don't think so."

"What are you talking about, kid? Have you seen the girl sitting behind you? If she isn't a gift from God I don't know what is."

"She's taken," Ryan said. "Eyes off."

"You have nothing to worry about from me, kiddo. I've got one of my own waiting for me at home."

"Is she pretty?" Ryan asked.

"Beautiful," John said. "And so are the kids she blessed me with."

"You must be a good dad," Ryan murmured. "I think I have one to."

"You think?"

"He isn't really my dad," Ryan explained, his voice sleepy and weak. "But I want him to be. Maybe he'll see me as a son one day."

"He already does," Marissa whispered in his ear. "Kirsten wanted me to tell you she loved you." She felt him shudder in her arms. "She said to tell you that Sandy was right about you. She said you would know what that meant."

"She said that?" Ryan rasped.

"She did," Marissa told him. "She's worried sick about you, Ryan. They both are."

Marissa wasn't sure how she'd been expecting Ryan to react at her words, but her heart squeezed painfully when she felt his shoulders hitch and heard him stifle a sob. John looked up at him in alarm, but calmed when he realized that he was fine.

"Ryan," Marissa whispered. "Don't cry. Everything is going to be fine."

"I'm sorry," Ryan groaned. "Tell them I'm sorry. I should have told Trey no, but I didn't and now I've ruined everything."

"No," Marissa told him firmly. "You haven't ruined anything, Ryan. You are going to get through this and you are going to explain what happened to the Cohen's. They'll understand."

"Why would they?" Ryan said weakly. "Why do they put so much faith in me, Marissa? What do they see that I don't?"

"They see you," Marissa whispered to him. "That is all they need to see. That is all anyone needs to see, Ryan. Your kindness, your willingness to help in whatever they need, your devotion to Seth and to them. They look at you and see someone who is good and honest despite the million and one reasons life has given you not to be."

"And when they realize that I'm not what they thought I was?" Ryan asked stonily. "When they find out that I went back and did something bad for Trey, what then?"

"They'll love you anyways," Marissa told him instantly.

He didn't say anything else to her but she felt his chest rise and fall rapidly and she thought he was crying. She was about to comfort him when she saw John's face. His expression was worried and he reached a hand up to Ryan's forehead. Marissa heard sirens in the distance and she wished they would go faster.

"Ryan," he said loudly. "You've got to stay with me, kid. Fight it just a little longer."

"What's happening?" Marissa breathed, almost letting Ryan slip from her grasp when he went rigid against her. She felt his heart beat and counted the beats in her head. Too slow. They were coming too slowly. He was slipping from her and there was nothing she could do.

"Shock," John said. "I'm amazed he lasted this long. Help me lay him flat."

"But I thought you said his breathing was—"

"There are more important things to worry about now," John interrupted. "Do what I say, Marissa."

Marissa supported Ryan with her hands and slipped out from beneath him, keeping a firm grip on his shoulders as she did so. She laid him straight and was almost immediately pushed out of the way with a gentle shove from John. She caught a glimpse of Ryan's face and she barely managed to choke down a sob. His eyes were closed and lips a light shade of blue stood out profoundly against his white skin. She had never seen anyone so pale except for when she'd seen her grandmother in her casket. She'd been dead and now Ryan looked like her.

John pressed his ear against Ryan's chest and swore. The big man looked up at her and for the first time she saw his calm slip. She glanced away from him when she heard the sirens stop and heard the unmistakable sound of tires screeching and doors opening.

"Marissa," John yelled at her. "I know the paramedics are here, but they will need a minute to get set up. Ryan needs help NOW. Tilt his head back, hold his nose and when I tell you to blow air into his mouth you do it."

She watched, dazed as John put his hands over Ryan's heart, and pressed down hard. She wanted to scream at him to stop, that he was going to break something, but she couldn't find her voice. She could only feel Ryan's body jerk beneath her hands with every forceful pump of John's hands and she waited to hear a cry of protest or a grunt of discomfort, but nothing came. She put her hand over his mouth, but there was no gush of warm air being expelled from his lungs. There was nothing at all.

"No," she groaned. "Ryan, don't. Please."

"Breathe," John ordered her. "Now, Marissa."

She looked up at John with tears in her eyes. She wanted to do what he said, but she couldn't seem to catch her breath. John cursed once and pushed her gently to the side. She watched in a daze as he pumped his hands over Ryan's heart again then blew into Ryan's open mouth. Ryan's chest rose and fell as his lungs expanded with air, but once John pulled away it did not rise again. She could hear voices talking to the clerk and she wanted to scream. 'Here,' she wanted to cry. 'We're in here!' But nothing came.

"God dammit, kid," she heard John curse. "Breathe for me."

He repeated the process once, twice, three times but no gasp of air greeted them. The next time John hit his chest harder than before and she winced. He breathed into Ryan's mouth and for a moment nothing happened. Then, as if he'd never stopped, he drew in a labored breath.

"Good," John shouted. "Good job, Ryan. Keep breathing."

And then, as if appearing from a dream, the paramedics were in the room, pushing Marissa to the side and falling on their knees beside John. The old marine told them something she could not understand then mentioned her name and gestured towards her.

A young paramedic with bright green eyes and a friendly, calming smile came towards her as Marissa watched the other medics put an oxygen mask over Ryan's face and slip an I.V. into the crook of his elbow. They were talking so fast that Marissa could not follow, but their faces did not bring her the hope she thought they would. They were grim and when one of them took Ryan's blood pressure he shook his head. Marissa finally broke down and slid to the floor, sobs racking her thin shoulders.

The paramedic that had been coming towards her pulled her into a tight hug and told her that everything was going to be fine. She introduced herself as Stacy and told her that she just needed to ask Marissa some questions about what happened and then she would get her some juice and a clean pair of clothes. It wasn't until the medic said this that Marissa realized her shirt and pants were covered in blood. She shivered and closed her eyes, but allowed the medic to ask her questions as they strapped Ryan to a backboard.

"How old is he?" Stacy asked.

"Sixteen," Marissa replied listlessly.

"Any allergies to medication?"

"I—I don't know," Marissa whispered. "He's never mentioned anything to me."

"How long ago did the victim receive the wound?"

"His name is Ryan," Marissa snapped.

"Ryan," Stacy amended apologetically. "How long ago did Ryan receive the wound?"

"An hour," Marissa guessed. "Maybe an hour and a half."

"Was he conscious when you found him?"

"No," Marissa answered. "But he came to not long after we got here."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Yes."

"Ok, that's good. Did you move him?"

"John did. He was a medic in the marines and he said that we needed to keep his airways open. I didn't know what else to do so I let him—"

"It's okay," Stacy soothed. "He was right. Your friend has lost a lot of blood and we won't know how much damage the bullet did until we get him to the hospital, but if we can get him stabilized he'll be fine."

"And if you don't get him stabilized?"

"We are going to do our best to make sure he is," Stacy told her after a moment's pause. "They're loading him into the truck now. We're taking him to the life-flight helipad at a clinic near here and flying him to a hospital near Newport. The trauma surgeons they have there are top notch. He'll be taken care of."

"Will that be fast enough?" Marissa questioned.

"It will be faster than driving him all the way back to the hospital here," Stacy told her.

"Can I go with him?"

"I'm sorry," Stacy said. "There isn't enough room in the truck for anyone other than required staff. Chief police officer Danvers is waiting outside to take you home. He'll need to ask you a few questions but he won't until you're ready. He'll have some apple juice and those clothes I promised you."

Marissa didn't say anything and Stacy pulled her into another hug.

"Everything is going to be okay, kid. You'll see."

Marissa watched her rush out the door, but she didn't follow. She didn't think she could get her feet to move that far. She hadn't seen John since he'd followed the paramedics out the door, but she figured he was talking to the police officer Stacy had mentioned. Chief Danvers. Eventually she would have to talk to him to, but she couldn't manage that yet. She wasn't sure she could manage words at all.

She glanced over at the mirror and studied her face in the dim light of the bathroom. Her face was too pale and her eyes looked sunken beneath her flesh. She looked at the blood on her clothes, on her throat, on her hands and before she knew what happened she'd thrown up all over the bathroom floor, wretched sobs shaking her to the core.

She had to get it off of her. She couldn't stand to see Ryan's blood on her skin, couldn't stand the way it made her fingers stick together. Rushing to the sink she all but tore the knob off in her haste to turn the water on. She waited until it was so hot it burned before she put her hands beneath the spray and furiously scrubbed Ryan's blood from her hands, from anywhere it touched.

When John, done speaking to the officer and worried about the kid's girlfriend, came into find her, his heart broke at what he saw. The girl was a mess, eyes swollen and cheeks streaked with makeup. There was blood in her hair and he watched her scrubbing her skin almost painfully, desperate to remove the kid's blood from her skin, to erase the memory of what had occurred.

He didn't have the heart to tell her that it was a futile effort. She could scrub it for years, until the skin was cracked and blistered, but it would never come off. The blood would disappear from beneath her fingernails, the smell of iron would eventually dissipate from her nose, and she could wash her hair enough times to remove any stains, but it was more than that. Blood had a habit of sinking beneath the skin, to the very heart and soul of person. The girl may not be able to see it or feel it, but it would be there. The scars of a wound no doctor could mend, of a pain no medicine could relieve. She would bear it for the rest of her life and for the first time since his final days in Vietnam John hid his face and cried.


	4. Waiting For Superman

**Author's Note: **_Ok, here is the next chapter and I hope you guys enjoy. I will get to the issue of Kirsten being drunk in the next chapter. Be patient with me. __ I feel like I need to defend my decision to have Marissa find Ryan. I don't like her either and I agree that she is selfish and manipulative, but she can also hold it together long enough to help people she cares about. She helps Ryan with Trey and helps him with Sadie. She helped Johnny. She just always falls apart afterwards and this won't be any different. She isn't a bad person and wouldn't leave somebody to die if there was something she could do. Even with that she falls apart during the chapter. Ryan flatlines for the first time and John asks her to help him and she can't because she is so upset. I may have made Marissa a bit more heroic than she might have been in the show, but I feel like I still stayed true to her character. I understand that people weren't happy she found him, but going forward I can promise that she doesn't play a very big part in the rest of the story._

Sandy Cohen felt like he'd been fighting an uphill battle since he'd first brought his work home with him. The job of defending Ryan Atwood should have been simple; an open and shut case. No priors, a fairly respectful demeanor, obvious intelligence, and a damn good lawyer helped the kid go from time in the clink to running free on the streets with only the mild threat of probation over his head. Sandy could go home to his family in Newport and pat himself on the back for another job well done. Then he'd talked to the kid for the first time and Sandy's hope of an easy case went up in smoke.

It was the kid's eyes that first gave him pause. The way they shifted uneasily and never quite managed to meet his own. He'd seen that look on some of the kids he'd grown up with in the Bronx. Kids who had fathers that hit first and asked questions later. His file didn't mention physical abuse, but that meant little in a world where children would rather be beaten and alone than face child services. Sandy had wondered then what Ryan's hospital file might contain, but as his lawyer he wasn't privy to that information.

The other thing that struck Sandy as odd when Ryan had first sat across from him was how quiet the kid was. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Sandy had dealt with a number of clients who held their tongues in his presence, but with them it was used as a power play, a show of chutzpah to let Sandy know who was in charge. Ryan was different. Ryan's silence was not disdainful or macho. It was simply instinctual. And when he did speak? Sandy was both shocked and saddened to hear Ryan's outlook on life. It had been bleak and harsh and far too world weary for a sixteen year old to have.

Then Sandy met Dawn and things began to connect. The moment she pulled up, running over the curb in her obvious drunken stupor, it had taken every ounce of control Sandy possessed not to intervene and take Ryan with him. He couldn't stop himself from giving the kid a lifeline though. It was only his card and his phone number, which wouldn't offer him much, but he hoped that Ryan would take the gift for what it really was: a sign that he was not alone in the world.

He hadn't actually expected the kid to use it, but he had and Sandy realized the desperation Ryan must have felt in that moment. He was putting his trust in a person he barely knew and for kids like Ryan trust was a precious gift. There was no way that Sandy could turn him away without crushing what little was left of the kid's dignity. So he'd brought him home, not realizing then that his life would never be the same.

Since then there had been no shortage of obstacles for them to face. The Newport society was a judgmental group of people and sunk their teeth into new bloods with all the ferocity of a school of piranha. Ryan's lack of pedigree and background with violence made him an easy target for the Newpie's whispers and taunts. The kid acted like he didn't care, but Sandy saw through his tough guy act. It was clear that the pointed insults and judgmental glances stung him and Sandy watched Ryan's emotional walls grow thicker each day. The only person who seemed to have any luck breaching them was Seth, an unlikely but worthy candidate.

Their son had been a lifeless, soulless thing before Ryan came. He hated Newport, hated the bikini babes and the trust-fund attitude, hated the fact that he was invisible to people he'd been going to school with for years. Seth wanted out and Sandy and Kirsten had many arguments about what to do with their only child. Kirsten wanted him home where she could keep an eye on him, but Sandy knew that it was only a matter of time before Seth hightailed it out of there, with or without his parent's permission. He opted for the less painful solution: boarding school on the East Coast. They had already made numerous inquiries about a school in Massachusetts when Seth finally found a reason to stay exactly where he was. Sandy often wondered if that was part of reason Kirsten had allowed Ryan to stay, but never asked her. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Kirsten had been the first obstacle, of course. She was almost as hard to crack as Ryan and almost as difficult to read. It was like the two of them spent hours practicing their poker faces and Sandy could never tell what either of them were thinking. Watching the two of them bond was like watching two paraplegic turtles race on the beach. Painfully slow and any progress the two of them made was almost invisible to the human eye, but they had made progress.

It was clear to Sandy that Kirsten cared for Ryan more than the kid realized, but displaying affection had always been difficult for his wife. She tried to show it in other ways, but Sandy didn't think Ryan ever recognized them for what they were. To him it was Kirsten simply being the good mother the kid never had. He didn't realize that Kirsten buying him clothes and offering to decorate the pool house for him was her way of trying to get to know him. He didn't understand that Kirsten wanting to make a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner for the first time in years was her way of making him feel like he was part of the family. The kid didn't hear the way Kirsten defended him from people like Julie Cooper or the many whispered conversations she and Sandy had at night about how he was adjusting to his new life. Ryan never knew that Kirsten had cried when she and Sandy had looked over his medical file or that his wife often looked in on him in the pool house when he was asleep just to make sure he was safe. It was clear to Sandy that Kirsten cared, but he wasn't the one who needed to be convinced. Ryan was.

Then there was Caleb. The self-righteous prick that had the audacity to call himself father. He was against Ryan from the very beginning and had no qualms about making it known. The kid had enough enemies in the world and Sandy tried to protect him from Caleb Nicholl as often as he was able, but Caleb had a way of seeping into every nook and cranny of their lives. Sandy couldn't stop the harsh, penetrating way the old man looked at Ryan and he knew that the kid from Chino had enough experience with people who hated him that the meaning of that gaze was not lost on him. Nor could Sandy stop Caleb from sizing up Ryan like he was his next opponent in the boxing ring and though he knew Ryan could outpunch the man with ease he wasn't sure the kid was up for the type of games Caleb liked to play. As sad as it was, Ryan was used to fists and Sandy was afraid he would be blindsided by one of Caleb's schemes that seemed to always lurk just beneath the surface of their lives like a monster of the deep.

Still, despite the troubles they faced, they were moving forward. Ryan's smile, so hesitant and feeble at first, had become a more common occurrence. The kid was still emotionally distant from them, but Sandy expected that he always would be in some way or another. As much as they would like to be, Sandy and Kirsten were not his parents and could never erase the years of hopelessness and abuse that had taken place. There were some scars that would never fade and the fact that Ryan was as functional as he was seemed like a miracle to Sandy. The first time they had opened Ryan's medical records had been a sobering and painful experience for both of them. No mention of abuse was ever made, but there were too many unexplained injuries in his file to suggest anything else and Sandy was furious that Ryan had slipped through the cracks for so long. Something should have been done after the first time the kid came in with broken bones and a flimsy excuse, but the Chino hospital was notorious for turning a blind eye. What else could they do? There were so many cases in that area that it would be easy for a quiet kid like Ryan to fade into the background.

After reading his file, Sandy felt like they had done the right thing more strongly than ever. They could offer him a life free from fear and constant doubt. They could give him a home where no hand would be raised against him, where he could focus on having the childhood he'd been robbed of. Sandy had hoped that Ryan would be able to leave the memory of his life before behind him, but there was one string that he couldn't bear to cut and as long as that tie remained Ryan would never truly be free. Sandy didn't think Trey was a hopeless case, but for reasons he didn't understand the older Atwood hadn't been able to withstand the siren's call of criminal activity and he had very nearly drug Ryan down with him. Hell, maybe he still would.

Sandy knew that Trey had something to do with his adopted son's current condition. He knew that the reason Ryan was alone and bleeding was because his brother had somehow talked him into a favor. He knew this and his blood boiled. It wasn't fair. Ryan had already been through more in his sixteen years than most people went through in their whole lives. The kid deserved happiness. He deserved to be loved and cherished. He deserved peace, but it seemed life would only grant him that in one way. Death would be his peace, his final breath would be his resting moment.

Sandy shook that thought away. Ryan wasn't dead yet. He wouldn't allow himself to give up hope when there was still hope to be had. His finger's tightened on the steering wheel and he glanced over at Kirsten who was talking on the phone with the emergency operator. His wife said a hurried goodbye and slapped the phone shut. She closed her eyes and Sandy could see tears threatening to spill across her cheeks, but she wiped them away roughly with the back of her hand.

"They've got him," Kirsten said roughly. "They've got him, Sandy, but he's in bad shape. She wouldn't give me the exact details, but I could hear it in her voice. They're taking him to a clinic in Chino where they are going to life-flight him to the hospital in Newport." Her voice broke a little on life-flight, but Sandy didn't comment on it. "They want us to meet them at the clinic. She said one of us could go with him on the helicopter if we made it in time."

"How long did they say?" Sandy said hoarsely.

"Ten minutes," Kirsten whispered. "They won't have time to wait for us, Sandy. If we aren't there then we'll just have to meet them at the hospital."

"We'll be there," Sandy said quietly, pushing his foot down on the gas pedal. "I am not going to let Ryan go through this alone. You should go with him, Kirsten. I think he would want you there."

"No," Kirsten said, smiling sadly. "I'm not the one he trusts, Sandy. You were his knight in shining armor from the very beginning. You're the one he called and you're the one he'd want beside him."

"Kirsten," Sandy began. "You should go—"

"Stop it, Sandy. He needs you and I know you want to be there for him."

"And you don't?"

"Of course I do," Kirsten said earnestly. "But, this isn't about what I want. It's about what Ryan would want and he would want you. He needs you, Sandy. He needs someone to hold his hand and tell him everything is going to be okay. You can give him that. I can't."

Sandy opened his mouth to argue with her, but she stopped him with a small shake of her head. She was crying and for once made no move to hide her tears. Sandy pushed on the gas pedal a little bit harder.

"You know I'm no good at things like that," she told him. "When Seth was a kid and he got sick it was always you who sat with him. I made sure he had everything he needed, Sandy. I made the doctors appointments, got the medicine, made him chicken soup, got videos from the store that I knew he would like, but you comforted him. I am good with lists, Sandy. I am good at making sure everything is organized and you can be damn sure I will get everything Ryan needs when he needs it, but if I go in that helicopter I will only screw it up somehow. He needs your strength."

"Alright," Sandy whispered. "I'll go with him."

He would never admit it to his wife, but he was secretly relieved that she had given him permission to go with Ryan. Sandy knew Kirsten loved the kid and this would be hard on her, but Kirsten had a way of compartmentalizing emotions and storing them away. He knew she would be able to drive the hour or so back to Newport and remain as outwardly calm as a babbling brook. If Sandy made that drive he would be so beside himself with worry that he would probably cause a wreck and then both he and Ryan would be in dire straits. Besides, he wanted to be there for him. He wanted to show him that he wasn't alone and that he never would be again if Sandy had anything to say about it.

"Hurry," Kirsten told him, looking at the clock on the dashboard. "You need to faster, Sandy."

Faster? He was already creeping up on ninety and in California that was a miracle in and of itself. Still, he could coax a little more speed from the engine rumbling beneath the car's hood and he pushed it to ninety-five. He flew through a stoplight and hissed in a breath when he saw the flashing lights of a cop behind him. If Ryan were here he would find Sandy's misfortune with the police terribly amusing.

"Don't stop," Kirsten warned him.

"I wasn't planning on it," Sandy told her. "He'll just have to join us for the ride."

"Good," his wife whispered. "We're down to four minutes, Sandy. We aren't going to make it."

"Yes, we will. I can see the clinic up ahead. We'll pull in and I'll jump out. Tell copper back there that I'm sorry."

Kirsten glanced behind her at the cop who had turned his sirens on blaringly loud. Sirens suddenly loomed ahead of them as well and Sandy watched as cars parted like the Red Sea for an ambulance speeding into the clinic parking lot. There was a median between him and the clinic and Sandy would have to turn left. No time for that. He would have to take the tiny space between cars the ambulance had offered him. He grit his teeth and wrenched the wheel to the side, bringing the tires bouncing up over the median, and slammed on the gas pedal. He screeched through traffic and could hear horns blaring at him, but he ignored them. The cop swerved around the median and followed them into the parking lot, but before he could even get out of his car Sandy was running across the black top to the helipad where the ambulance had come to a stop.

He heard the cop shout at him to stay where he was, but he ignored him as easily as he ignored the wailing horns on the street. Kirsten would handle the cop. She always was better at escaping tickets than him, anyways. Sandy watched as the paramedics maneuvered a stretcher out of the back of the ambulance and his heart lurched. Ryan. Sandy ran faster.

The stretcher was well on its way to the helicopter by the time Sandy caught up with them. A paramedic heard his pounding feet and turned to stop him.

"Sir," he said, putting a warning hand against his chest. "This is a restricted area and you can't—"

"He's mine," Sandy growled at the medic, pushing his hand aside. "I'm his father."

The medic looked behind him at the woman who must have been his superior. She studied Sandy for a tiny moment then nodded, turning her attention back to Ryan. The medic who had stopped him stepped in front of him and helped the woman lift the stretcher into the helicopter then reached out a hand to give Sandy a boost up. He took it gratefully and pulled himself into the dark interior of the aircraft, trying to get to Ryan before he'd even made it through the door.

"Sir," the woman told him. "I know this must be difficult, but I need you to stay out of my way."

"He's my son," Sandy said. "You can't keep me from him."

"Sit beside him," the woman said. "But be prepared to move the second I tell you to."

Sandy nodded and made his way to the small seat on Ryan's left side. He wouldn't allow himself to look at the kid until he was seated, but he didn't even have to turn his head to see the dark blood that soaked his torn shirt. He wanted to be sick, but he swallowed hard and kept it under control. The paramedic would kill him if he threw up all over the floor.

He sat down heavily on the tiny seat and turned his attention on Ryan. Kirsten had said he was in bad shape, but words couldn't have prepared him for this. This was a scene from every parent's worst nightmare.

The kid looked lifeless. His skin was ashen and his lips, the tips of fingers, and Sandy imagined his toes were tipped with the lightest blue. A sign of blood loss. Major blood loss. Blood smudged his cheeks, his hairline, his throat, his arms. It was everywhere, bright and vivid against the white of his skin. They were signs of people attempting to help him, but somehow this knowledge made it no less disturbing. The male medic was pressing a large towel into Ryan's side in an attempt to stop the stream of blood, but in seconds it was sodden with a red darker than Sandy had ever thought possible.

The lead paramedic was pumping air into Ryan's lungs and keeping a close eye on the heart monitor he was hooked up to. Sandy didn't like the way she frowned at the screen, but he couldn't find the words to ask her to explain. Instead he took Ryan's blood crusted hand and held it tight, watching his son's chest rise and fall with every rhythmic pump of the medic's hands.

"BP is 60 over 40," she told her partner. "He's dropping, Collin. You've got to get his bleeding under control."

"I'm trying," Collin said. "I can't find an exit wound, Stacy. I think the bullet is still in him."

"Damn," Stacy hissed. "Do we know if it was a hollow point?"

"I can't tell," Collin said. "He's bleeding too much for me to get a good look at the entry point."

"Mr. Atwood," Stacy said, turning to him. "I need to help my partner get a look at your son's wound so we can figure out what we're dealing with. I'm going to need you to hold this and squeeze it every ten seconds or so. Then release. Can you do that?"

Sandy didn't bother correcting her when she called him Mr. Atwood. There was no way he could explain the situation they were in and he didn't have the strength to do it anyways. He simply took the blue oxygen pump she held out to him and moved to stand where she had been. He squeezed and watched Ryan's chest rise.

This was it. This tiny little thing was the only obstacle standing between his kid and death. If Sandy let go of the pump he knew Ryan would not breathe on his own. It didn't matter if Sandy held his hand or not because the kid wouldn't even know he was there. He could feel himself beginning to spiral down and he pumped air into Ryan's lungs in response, using the task as an anchor to keep him grounded. As long as his heart kept beating Sandy would fight for him. And maybe long after his heart stopped to.

Sandy couldn't hear the whirring of the helicopter blades or the way the paramedics shouted orders at each other as they attempted to keep Ryan's heart pumping. The only thing he could hear was the ping of the monitor in the corner and it seemed like his own heart was keeping the same erratic rhythm. He didn't even feel it when the aircraft touched down, looking up only when the helicopter door slid open and he had to shield his eyes from the blinding sunlight.

The sun fell across Ryan's face and illuminated the circles beneath his eyes and the blood across his cheeks. Sandy jumped from the helicopter after they had gotten him down to the ground and jogged to catch up to them as they made their way to the hospital. He knew the emergency room staff were shouting to each other, but Sandy couldn't make out their words. All he knew was the iciness of Ryan's hand as he took it in his own, jogging to remain by his side, the rhythm of his heart still pounding in his head.

And then the rhythm stopped. Sandy almost fell with the shock of it and he released Ryan's hand in horror. The only thing reaching his ears was the incessant whine of a machine with nothing to record. No heart beat. Ryan's heart had officially given up on its hopeless duty and finally lay still in his chest.

"No," Sandy croaked out. "Ryan, come on kid. Don't do this. Wake up, Ryan."

He tried to take his hand again, but was stopped by two beefy hospital guards who kept him from following Ryan through the emergency room doors. Sandy tried to push them away, but they weren't like the tiny medic in the helicopter and they refused to budge.

"I've got to stay with him," Sandy tried to explain. "Please, he's my son."

"I'm sorry," hospital guard one said. "Nobody but staff is allowed through these doors. There is nothing more you can do but take a seat in the waiting room and be patient."

"Fuck patience," Sandy growled. "I can't leave him alone."

"He's not alone," guard two told him gently. "He's with the best doctors in Newport, sir. Let me show you to the waiting room. It's just around the corner here and—"

"No," Sandy said. "I don't need you to show me. I can find my way just fine."

"I'm sorry," guard two said. "I know this is hard, but the best thing you can do for him is stay positive."

Sandy hadn't felt like punching somebody since his teenage days in the Bronx, but he was thinking about it then. He knew the guard was trying to be kind and helpful, but it he was sick with worry and punching anybody sounded like a really good idea.

He swallowed hard and walked away, leaving the guard for another worried father to knock out. Sandy looked at the emergency room entrance stonily and shook his head. He couldn't go in there. Not yet. He needed fresh air. He needed to get the smell of Ryan's blood out of his nose.

Sandy found a quiet spot on the side of the hospital grounds. He sat against the wall, sliding down until he could feel the dampness from the concrete sinking into his pants. He should call Kirsten, call Seth, and Marissa. He should call somebody but he couldn't find the strength to get the phone out of his pocket. All he could do was sit there and breathe. In and out. Imagining he was breathing for Ryan.

Ryan. The kid who had come into their lives as unexpected as a snowstorm in California. The boy who had faced horrors no child should have to face, but still managed to be kind and good. The kid who brought Seth out of his shell and showed him that there was so much more to life than being invisible. The kid who seemed to be thawing the icy exterior of his wife without even realizing he'd been doing it. The kid who reminded Sandy what family meant and had brought them together, truly together, for the first time in a long time.

Ryan Atwood. Their deliverance. Their savior. Their second chance.

Their son.

Sandy Cohen put his face in his hands and wept.


	5. The Ice Queen Cometh

**Author's Note: **_Sorry for the delay in posting. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I tried to make it as realistic as possible because I can't stand it when its not. Especially when it comes to medical or law procedures. I ALSO hope that it isn't too hard to understand, but please let me know if it is. As always I welcome thoughts and relish in reviews. _

Kirsten Cohen's head hurt.

She couldn't count the number of times she'd looked at the tiny bottle of Aspirin she carried in her purse. All she had to do was pop two or three in her mouth, swallow, and her pain would eventually dissipate. Voila! Presto! Just like magic. But, she just couldn't do it.

Every time she raised the pills to her lips her stomach exploded with guilt. It was an irrational feeling, she knew, but there all the same. How could she even entertain the idea of ending the inconsequential throbbing in her skull when she didn't know if Ryan was dead or alive? How was it that the little capsules in her fist could end her pain, but not his?

She felt more inadequate than she ever had before. All she could do was sit with her husband and her son, waiting for the grim faced doctor that would eventually arrive to inform them of the fate of the newest member of their family. No mother likes to wait when the safety of her child is on the line. But wait she must. Wait and try to hide her growing headache that she knew was caused more by the copious amounts of alcohol she'd used to deaden the pain of the nightmare that had become her Thanksgiving than her anxiety over Ryan. The hissing, writhing snake of guilt in her belly exploded into a giant nest of biting serpents and Kirsten wanted nothing more than to rush to the bathroom and regurgitate all her culpability into the waiting mouth of the porcelain express.

She bit down hard on her tongue and remained seated. There may not have been much she could do for Ryan, but she had another son and a husband who were devastated. It was her job to be their pillar of strength. It was her duty to be the one to ask the questions that none of them really wanted an answer to. Besides, she doubted she had enough energy to handle anything else. She'd picked a hell of a time to get drunk. Not that she was drunk now, of course. She had been on the edge of a total drunken blackout when Sandy had answered his phone, but one look at the expression on his face had sobered her up faster than a cold shower, cup of coffee, or the equally effective hair of the dog treatment ever could. It was funny how surges of adrenaline could do that to a person. What wasn't funny was what she was left with when the adrenaline wore off, but she had nobody to blame but herself.

All she'd wanted was to make Ryan's first Thanksgiving in their household something special. It was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be fun. More than that, it was supposed to be Kirsten's chance to shed her icy exterior and show the kid that she wanted him. That she loved him. That he was family and would remain so for as long as she drew breath. But, when were things ever that easy when it came to Ryan?

From the moment Kirsten had met the troubled boy from Chino she knew that life had taken an uncanny and unfair interest in the young man for no other reason than that he existed. It was in the way his smile rarely met his eyes. It was in the way he sometimes flinched when Sandy moved too quickly or the way he watched them when he thought they weren't looking. As if he found the very idea of a family laughing together and loving one another strange and alien. Sometimes, when they all spent time together, she would glance over and see the most peculiar expression on his face. It was one part wonder, one part joy, and one part sheer terror. Kirsten often wondered what was going through his mind when he looked like that, but she was too afraid to ask him. Too afraid that his answer would only break her heart.

She knew she shouldn't have been surprised when the Thanksgiving she'd been hoping for began to crumble. It seemed strange to her that so much heartache and grief had begun with a simple phone call. Kirsten wished more than anything that she'd denied the charges when she was asked. No, it was more than that. She wished she'd taken the call from Trey, wished she had told him to leave his brother alone or else he would have one pissed off mother bear to deal with. But, she hadn't told him that. Hadn't protected Ryan even though every mothering bone she had in her body was screaming at her to do so. Why? Because Ryan wasn't really hers. Not entirely. She had no right to keep him from the people that had been his family for the first sixteen years of his life. She had no right to make those decisions for him even though she could have done so under California law. If it had been Seth, there would have been no chance he would have been allowed to go, but Ryan wasn't Seth. He wasn't her biological son.

She hated the distinction, hated the metaphysical fault line that would always separate them, but there was nothing she could do to change it. She loved him no less than Seth, but as much as she wanted to act like he'd always been there she had to remind herself that Ryan had a past she knew next to nothing about. A living, breathing family that had shattered everything Ryan was, everything he dreamed he could be. A family that was out of sight, but certainly not out of mind. And no matter how much Kirsten wished she could erase every sour memory from Ryan's mind, every scar from his body, every painful lesson he'd been forced to learn at too young an age, she never could. And that terrified her.

Kirsten had long ago come to terms with the fact that motherhood and terror often came hand in hand. Still, the terror she'd come to feel with Ryan was something entirely new to her. Her fears for Seth were of the common variety. The fear that he would hate her, the fear that something terrible would happen to him, the fear that he was lonely or miserable and couldn't bear to tell her, the fear that all the values she'd taught him were wrong. Her fears for Ryan were anything but common. The fear that she would fail him, that she would hurt him somehow, the fear that she would shatter his already brittle trust, the fear that she would say or do the wrong thing and drive him away. Seth had been her son for sixteen years. She had birthed him, nursed him, bathed him. She was confident that no matter where Seth was in his life or what might go on between them he would always come back to her. But Ryan? With Ryan there were no guarantees. If she said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, it would be easy for him to run away and never come back. She couldn't bear the thought of that and it quickly became clear to her that she was stuck in a vicious cycle. If she didn't show the kid how much he had come to mean to her then she was driving him away, but if she overstepped her boundaries or made a mistake then she could drive him away. Thanksgiving was supposed to be a way out of the cycle, a way for her to show him she cared without overstepping.

But it had all fallen apart when Trey called. Ryan never talked about his brother, but sometimes Seth mentioned him. Or Sandy. He was always brought up casually, but it quickly became clear that Ryan was fiercely loyal to the older Atwood. The kid would instantly become still, like a statue, and his jaw would tighten as if he was trying to control some inner urge to protect the reputation of his brother. He never said a word, but Ryan had an uncanny ability to make his thoughts known with a simple look. It had frustrated Seth on more than occasion that he didn't share Ryan's talent, but both Sandy and Kirsten found it to be a lifeline. His expressions were sometimes the only insight they got to his inner thoughts. He wasn't a talker, which worked out perfectly for Seth who could talk for hours, but his silence was frustrating at the best of times. Sandy seemed to be better at getting Ryan to open up, but he'd always had a natural talent at dealing with even the most hardened people. Sandy was easy that way. Besides, Kirsten often suspected that Ryan saw a bit of himself in the older man. After all, that had been part of Sandy's argument to her in the beginning. It wasn't until they'd opened his medical file that Sandy realized just how different their lives had really been. Sandy may have been from a bad part of town, may have been robbed of someone to look up to, may have made mistakes, but he'd never been beaten down as often as Ryan had. And he'd never been in any physical danger.

The thought of anyone harming Ryan made her blood boil. The kid was so damned sweet and gentle, so caring and kind. Life had given him a thousand and one reasons to be a violent, angry, and vicious young man but he'd never succumbed to such primal urges. In the beginning she had mistook Ryan's aptitude for fighting as a sign of a darker presence lurking just beneath the surface. A presence Sandy either could not see or refused to. It wasn't until she'd found out the reason why he'd punched Luke on the beach and in the diner on the pier that she began to re-evaluate her misgivings. Ryan had been trying to protect Seth and the kid had never said a word in his own defense. He could have explained what had happened on the beach, what had happened at the model home or in the diner, but he'd allowed people to think whatever they wanted to think. Kirsten wondered if Ryan was truly that self-sacrificing or if he believed he wasn't worth the effort or the time it would take to explain his actions. Was he so used to being judged unfairly that he'd grown tired of trying to change people's opinions?

The thought saddened Kirsten and from the moment she'd discovered the truth she had wanted to protect him. The same way he'd protected Seth. The same way he'd protected her that day in juvenile detention when that inmate had made a pass at her.

Except she hadn't protected him. If she had done what she had promised to do Ryan wouldn't be in the situation he was in. He wouldn't be dead or dying. Her husband wouldn't have Ryan's blood on his hands and clothing and her son wouldn't be staring at the floor with the dead-eyed, hollow expression of a man facing pain and death for the first time. If she had done her job Ryan would be eating his second helping of mashed potatoes and playing _Playstation _with Seth. Perhaps if she had done her duty the vodka and tequila wouldn't have looked so damn good and she wouldn't be nursing the hangover that was currently whittling away at her skull. He would have looked at her with his soulful blue eyes and he would have asked her if she was okay. His voice would have been so quiet, so gentle and sincere. It would have given her the extra layer of armor she needed to face her father and Julie Cooper. It would have—

"Kirsten," Sandy said softly, reaching out a blood stained hand and squeezing her knee gently. "Earth to Kirsten."

"Sorry," Kirsten murmured. "I was lost in my thoughts."

"Yeah," Sandy whispered. "I think there is a lot of that going around. You holding up okay?"

"What do you think, Sandy?" Kirsten said with a sad smile.

Sandy nodded once and removed his hand from her knee. She wished he would leave it there. It felt good and warm against her skin and the weight of his fingers gave her strength. She glanced over to where her son had been sitting, to pull him close to her, but Seth was no longer there.

"Where's Seth?" she asked.

"He needed some fresh air," Sandy told her, rubbing at his eyes. "I think he's going to call Summer and Anna to give them an update on Ryan."

"What update?" Kirsten asked darkly. "We've been here five hours, Sandy, and nobody has told us a damn thing. If we don't get some answers soon I am going to go up the counter and—"

She heard the whoosh of the emergency room doors opening behind her and she turned to watch an older, burly looking gentleman stride purposefully through the doors. There was something about him that gave her pause and she followed his progress through the waiting room. He stopped at the front desk and whispered something to Rachel, the nurse on duty. Rachel glanced at Kirsten before turning back to the burly man. She lifted a thin, manicured finger and pointed to where Kirsten and Sandy sat waiting and the burly man glanced at them, before nodding and making his way in their direction.

"Sandy," Kirsten said. "There is a man coming this way. Maybe he's with the police."

Sandy glanced behind him and stood up to greet the strange man. If circumstances had been different it might have been comical to see the man towering over her husband, but Kirsten was beyond finding anything funny.

"Mr. Cohen? Mrs. Cohen?" the man inquired, trading grips with Sandy. "I'm John Marcovitz. I—well, I was there when they found your son."

"You were?" Sandy said, busy eyebrows rising in surprise. "Nobody said anything about there being someone else with him."

"The girl didn't tell you?" John asked, looking between Sandy and Kirsten.

"You must mean Marissa," Kirsten whispered, standing up to greet the newcomer. "We haven't heard from her since she called to say she was at the gas station."

"I see," John said slowly.

"Mr. Marcovitz," Kirsten said. "I don't mean to be rude, but what are you doing here? How did you even know Ryan was being brought here?"

"I came to see how the kid was doing," John said sheepishly. "I overheard the paramedics talking at the gas station and I just thought…well, its hard too explain, but I feel sort of responsible for him."

"You're not his mother," Kirsten said waspishly. "I'm responsible for him, Mr. Marcovitz. Not you."

"Kirsten," Sandy hissed. "What has gotten into you?"

"It's fine," John said slowly. "I get it, Mr. Cohen. A mother has every right to be cautious when it comes to strange folk taking an interest in their children. I just wanted to let you know that I'm here if you need anything and I wanted to see if the kid made it okay. I tried to keep him conscious, but…" He shrugged listlessly and shook his head.

"Take a seat," Sandy told him. "We don't know much about Ryan's condition at the moment. It was pretty hairy when we first got here, but they got him breathing again. All we know now is that he's in surgery."

John glanced over at Kirsten, obviously waiting for her approval before he sat down. She nodded once, in way of apology, and the giant man sat down with a small sigh. His broad shoulders and wide torso seemed to dwarf the chair and the man had to lean forward on his knees to sit comfortably.

"He seems like one hell of a kid," John told them. "I thought you should know that."

"We do know that," Sandy said softly. "More than he does, I think."

"You said he was conscious when you found him," Kirsten said slowly. "Did he say anything to you? Say anything about what happened?"

"We spoke," John said slowly. "He was pretty lucid considering how much blood he'd lost but—" He glanced up at Kirsten's face and grimaced. "I'm sorry. I forget that being blunt isn't always the most sensitive of approaches. There isn't much room for bullshit in the marines, you see, and I—well, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Kirsten told him. "I appreciate honesty even if it is hard to hear. What did he say?"

"It was mostly filler stuff on my part," John told them. "I was trying to keep him conscious until the paramedics arrived." He smiled slightly. "He called me a butcher which probably doesn't make much sense to you, but in context it was a fairly amusing joke. Certainly better than anything I could come up with in his situation. We talked about miracles and my wife and you two."

"Us?" Sandy asked.

"Yeah," John said gruffly. "You two mean a lot to him. He wasn't exactly in the mindset to explain his situation, but from what little I pieced together it seems to me like the two of you are doing a good thing here and he recognizes it. Hell, he's terrified of disappointing you."

"What makes you say that?" Kirsten asked, already beginning to feel her heart split down the middle.

"He got pretty upset when his girlfriend mentioned you were worried about him," John explained uncomfortably. "He didn't seem to understand why you were taking a chance on him."

Kirsten opened her mouth to ask more about what Ryan had told him, but she never got the chance. She felt Sandy grip her hand hard and she followed her husband's gaze to the doors leading to the medical bays of the emergency room. A man who seemed entirely too young to be in a medical profession of any kind shut the door and turned to face the room, his face haggard with exhaustion.

"Is Ryan Atwood's family here?" he called. "Ryan Atwoo-"

"Here," Kirsten cried, jumping to her feet. "We're right here, doctor."

The doctor jerked his head in acknowledgment and made his way over to them, sliding between rows of other waiting guests. Sandy leaned in close to her still keeping a watchful eye on the doctor.

"We should get Seth," he told her. "He would want to hear this."

"No," Kirsten whispered, trying to keep her emotions in check. "If it's bad news I would rather him hear it from us. I think he will take it better that way."

The doctor made his way down their aisle and sat down across from them, running a hand through messy brown hair before flicking his steely grey eyes to meet theirs.

"I'm Doctor Woodruff," the young man told them. "Are you Ryan's parents?"

"We're his legal guardians," Sandy corrected him. "We have full custody. It's all in the paperwork if you need to—"

"I've got a copy here," Woodruff interrupted, holding up a blue folder wearily. He opened it up and glanced down at a couple of documents, his eyes moving restlessly until he'd found what he was looking for. "Well, everything seems to be in order."

"How is he?" Kirsten asked quietly.

It was like a switch had been flipped. Woodruff's expression went from bone deep exhaustion to calm and efficient the second the words were out of her mouth. Kirsten felt sure that he was no less weary than before, but that the change was instinctual to him. Calm was what worried parent's expected of the person in charge of keeping their children safe. Efficient is the only thing he could afford to be when lives were on the line.

"He's stable," Woodruff told them, pulling a medical diagram of the human body out from Ryan's folder. "The bullet entered here, low down on his left side." He pointed to where he'd circled the area with his pen. "It pierced the liver, but luckily the damage inflicted there wasn't horribly serious and was fairly simple to fix surgically. We classify liver damage on a Roman numeral scale of one to six, one being the least damage and six being the most. Ryan was a three."

"So," Sandy said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "He's alright? He's going to be fine?"

Kirsten's heart sped up hopefully, but she could tell by the expression on Woodruff's face that Ryan's ordeal was nowhere near over with. She took Sandy's hand and squeezed it tightly.

"Mr. Cohen," Woodruff said gently. "I would like nothing more than to tell you Ryan's life is no longer in jeopardy, but I can't. Even though the trauma done by the bullet to the liver was relatively inconsequential there were complications."

"Complications," Sandy repeated lifelessly. "What kind of complications are we talking about here?"

"The bullet was a hollow point," Woodruff explained. "When a hollow point hits the body it doesn't shatter like most people believe. It expands or mushrooms out." He pulled a small baggy from his back pocket and showed them the tiny piece of metal they had removed from Ryan's body. "In Ryan's case, when the bullet expanded it pierced the Hepatic Portal vein."

"It's a vein for Christ's sake," Sandy said. "We pierce veins all the time, Doc."

"Portal veins aren't normal veins," John said from where he sat quietly in his seat.

"He's right," Woodruff said, glancing over at the large man. "Portal veins supply 75% of the total blood volume needed for proper liver function while the other 25% is supplied by the hepatic artery. Sustaining trauma to the portal vein in the liver is serious and the blood loss associated with such an injury is substantial. He was bleeding both internally and externally, Mr. and Mrs. Cohen. If we had been able to get to him earlier, if we could have gotten control of the hemorrhage from the beginning, the meeting taking place between us would be going very differently."

"What are you saying?" Kirsten asked, tears beginning to streak down her cheeks.

"By the time we even began to treat Ryan he'd lost almost two thirds of his total blood volume," Woodruff told them quietly. "That's about 50%-60%. What happens in cases of severe blood loss is something we call hypovolemic shock. In the simplest terms, Ryan's body began to systematically shut down due to oxygen deprivation. Now, as I said before we were able to stabilize him using a mixture of blood transfusions and Dopamine treatments."

"Dopamine," Sandy said. "What is that?"

"Dopamine is commonly used in inotropic therapy, Mr. Cohen. The goal of inotropic therapy is to get a specific muscle to contract more forcefully and more often. In Ryan's case, the Dopamine should force his heart to pump more often which will increase the blood flow to the rest of his body. Our hope is that we can minimize any tissue damage without causing any further agitation by oxidizing his tissues too quickly. It's a hard line to walk, but so far Ryan seems to be responding well to treatments."

"If he's responding so well why are you acting like he's already dead?" Seth asked loudly from behind them.

"Seth," Kirsten cried, whirling to face her child. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," Seth said quietly, his eyes never leaving Doctor Woodruff.

"You should come sit down," Sandy told him quietly, trying to take his son by the arm.

"I don't want to sit down," Seth snapped. "What I want is for Doctor Frankenstein here to stop babbling about things that don't matter and tell me how my best and possibly only friend is. What I want is to see Ryan."

"Seth," Kirsten said. "Apologize."

There was no conviction to her words. She was too exhausted, too heart broken for that. Besides, she couldn't blame the kid. She'd wanted to say the exact same thing to the doctor from the moment he'd opened his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Woodruff said suddenly, surprising all four of them. "I'm not—I've never been very good at this. Supposedly it gets easier as you do it more often, but I still struggle."

"Exactly how long have you been doing this?" Sandy asked him.

"This is my second year," Woodruff replied. "When I started out I thought I could save everyone…that I would never have to deliver bad news, but—"

"Is that what you're doing?" Seth asked very quietly. "Delivering bad news?"

Woodruff looked up at the dark haired young man and seemed to appraise him from behind his tortoise shell glasses. Kirsten could see genuine concern in his eyes and her heart softened. Jesus, he was just a kid. He wasn't much older than Seth or Ryan.

"Give it to them straight," John rumbled. "Trying to make a bad situation seem less serious by using big words don't make it any easier to process. Pain is pain, mister. Regardless of how it's delivered."

"I know," Woodruff whispered. The young man sighed then squared his shoulders and met their eyes again, the calm doctor once more. "Like I said before, Ryan's vitals are stable, but it isn't his vitals I'm worried about. When tissue and organs don't get enough oxygen they get damaged. There is a point where you can damage the tissue beyond repair and that is what concerns me with Ryan's situation. His heart stopped three different times that I'm aware of, once at the gas station, once upon his arrival here, and once while he was on my operating table."

"He isn't going to wake up, is he?" Seth asked, stumbling into a chair like a zombie from the movies. "That's what you're trying to tell us. He isn't going to wake up."

"I'm not saying that," Woodruff said quickly. "But…I'm not denying the possibility."

"What?" Sandy rasped, gripping Kirsten's hand so tight it hurt. "What did you say?"

"The brain, like any other organ, needs oxygen to survive," Woodruff said gently. "With the amount of blood Ryan lost there was no way his heart could pump the amount of oxygen needed to keep the brain functioning properly."

"But," Kirsten said, tears staining her cheeks. "You said he was responding well to treatments."

"He is," Woodruff told her. "But the brain is a complicated organ, Mrs. Cohen. There is no real way to measure the kind of damage that has been done until Ryan wakes up…if he wakes up."

"What kind of damage could we be dealing with here?" Kirsten asked, refusing to entertain the possibility of never seeing Ryan's baby blues again.

"It could be anything," Woodruff said. "It could be something as simple as slight memory loss. It could also go in the opposite direction and leave him unable to speak or walk properly. Or there is the possibility that his brain works just as well as it did before. But, like I said, there is no real way of knowing until he wakes up."

"And if he doesn't?" Sandy said hoarsely.

"I think," Woodruff said slowly. "I think that is a question best asked when there are no other roads to travel down, Mr. Cohen. Ryan is fighting with everything he has, but he'll need all of you to make it through this."

Somewhere an intercom buzzed overhead and Woodruff's name was called over the loudspeaker. He grimaced at them apologetically and stood up, placing Ryan's folder beneath his arm.

"I hate to do this to you," he said. "But, duty calls. If you have any questions or concerns ask for Angela. She is the head ICU nurse tonight and she'll help answer them as best as she can."

"I've got one," Seth said from his seat. "Can we see him?"

"You can," Woodruff told him. "But, he is still in the ICU and will remain there for some time. There are strict visitation rules and I'm afraid you'll have to abide by them for Ryan's safety. There is still an hour left in visiting hours so you'll be able to spend a little time with him. He's a minor so he's allowed to have one parent stay the night with him. Talk to Angela and she'll get everything arranged."

The doctor turned to leave, but John stood up quickly and put a large hand on Woodruff's bony shoulder.

"Did the medics tell you about the towel?" he asked.

"What?" Woodruff replied, confused. "What towel?"

"The bathroom towel the kid used to try and stop the bleeding," John replied. "I was a medic in the marines and I know a bad omen when I see one. I wanted to make sure the paramedics told you about it."

"They didn't," Woodruff said, frowning. "Are you sure it was from the bathroom and not one he had on him earlier?"

"It was one of those cloth bathroom towels," John said adamantly. "I know it was, doc. The thing was filthy and covered with who knows what. I know I'm not a doctor, but—"

"I believe you," Woodruff said, obviously troubled. "And I wouldn't sell yourself short. From what the paramedics told me if you hadn't been there Ryan wouldn't have made it to the hospital. I'll look into the towel. The only thing we can really do is start him on a preemptive antibiotic and keep an eye out for any signs of infection."

Kirsten paled and her hands shook. It was too much. All of it was too much. The light was too bright in her eyes, the pain in her skull was reaching a blinding crescendo, her stomach threatened to revolt against her, and all she could do was think about Ryan.

Ryan never opening his eyes again, lost to a dark world full of monsters and demons Kirsten couldn't protect him from. Ryan trying to speak, but unable to do so, silenced forever by fate. Ryan in a wheelchair. Ryan's pale face as he she leaned over him in his coffin, pressing her lips against his cool skin as she said her final goodbye. Ryan leaving her forever.

Kirsten Cohen, ice queen of Newport Beach, bolted to the emergency room garbage can and emptied the contents of her stomach into the black lined receptacle. She could feel her husband's soothing hands on her back, rubbing in gentle circles, but for the first time in her life she didn't want him to be gentle. She didn't want him to love her so damned much it hurt. She wanted him to hate her like she hated herself. She wanted him to yell and scream at her for failing to protect Ryan. She wanted him to curse and rage at her for drinking her night away.

But, Sandy didn't yell or scream or curse or rage. He simply held her like he always had. Kirsten's icy armor cracked and the tears began to fall. Slow at first, but soon her shoulders were hitching with the force of her sobs and her head pounded worse than ever before.

"I'm sorry," she heard herself saying. Over and over again like the crazy woman that she'd seen living on a street corner when she was little. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Kirsten," Sandy soothed. "There was nothing you could have done. None of this is your fault."

"You don't know that," she cried. "You don't know that for sure, Sandy. I should have stopped him from going. I should have insisted on going with him. I should have—"

"Mom," Seth said, suddenly beside her. "Mom, stop."

Her tears immediately ceased as she glanced up at her son. He was so frail looking in his T-shirt and jeans, so pale and vulnerable. Seth hugged her tight and she drew strength from his embrace.

"It was Ryan's choice," Seth told her softly. "Going was his choice and nothing you could have done would have stopped him from doing it. It would be like trying to convince Gollum not to go after the ring, mom."

"What?"

"Mom," Seth said with a sad smile. "You've officially hit 'lives under a rock' status."

"What are you trying to say?" Kirsten huffed, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I'm not hip? Not groovy enough to keep up with the kids these days?"

"Mom," Seth sighed. "Just…just stop. You're embarrassing yourself."

"Yeah, I'm used to that."

Seth smiled slightly, but didn't say anything more. Then again, he didn't have to. His job was done. His mother was back in control. The ice queen once more.

Only…she wasn't really. Not anymore. Ryan had seen to that. Ryan had changed her for the better.

He'd changed all of them for the better.

Kirsten made a silent promise to herself to make sure that Ryan knew how much she cared about him the moment he woke up. And he would wake up. He had to wake up. Kirsten didn't know what she would do if he didn't.

Because a life without Ryan wasn't really a life at all.


	6. Split-Screen Sadness

**Author's Note:**_ Ok, I worked really hard on this chapter. I've been dreading having to write from Seth's point of view because he such a hard character to write. He's quirky on so many levels that it gets hard to translate that into writing. I hope I did a decent job. Please REVIEW and let me know!_

Seth Cohen had come to terms with being invisible a long time ago. Before Ryan, Seth could not think of a single person who really paid much attention to him. Summer had ignored him for the better part of thirteen years. His mother was constantly at work and if she wasn't at the office she brought her work home with her. Sandy, so attentive to his underprivileged clients, barely recognized his only son's unhappiness. He'd sought solace in his video games, in his books and movies. He would watch the characters live out their lives and dream of having adventures that would win him the love of the world. Or, at the very least, a girlfriend. The Girlfriend. Summer.

There was only one group of people that never seemed to forget he existed. It didn't matter how hard he tried to remain under their radar. It didn't matter that he avoided parts of the school they would frequent and never went to the hundreds of Newpie parties that seemed to take place every year. They always found him. Luke and his pack of hairless wonders had bullied him, dogged him, harassed him, swirlied him, and generally made his life miserable since his first day of pre-school and had only become worse with puberty. It had been Luke who had coined the nickname Death Breath Seth in the fourth grade.

Seth had slowly been working up the courage to say hello to Summer Roberts, the prettiest girl in class next to Marissa Cooper, every recess since school had started. And, finally, after months of studious preparation and numerous hours at the library reading self-help books for romance, Seth felt prepared to introduce himself. He'd squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and thought of every corny pickup line he'd learned from watching late night television. This was his moment. This was his time to shine. Summer would play Gwen Stacy to his Peter Parker and the two of them would have a romance worthy of the friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Only, he amended, Summer wouldn't die in the end.

Even now, years later, he could remember every intimate detail of that moment. He remembered walking up to her, his mouth dry and his stomach threatening to turn itself inside out. He remembered the way she was standing, arms on her hips, laughing at something Marissa had said. He remembered the moment she'd finally seen him standing there like a love-sick puppy, the way he'd waved at her like an idiot, and the way she'd smiled. He remembered how his heart leapt at the flash of pearly white teeth she'd given him. But, most of all, he remembered the first time he'd been truly, irrevocably crushed.

"You're Seth Cohen, right?" she had asked him, smacking on her _Bazooka _bubblegum. "You live next to Marissa?"

He'd been trying to think of a clever way to answer her questions when he felt something hard and round slam into the back of his skull. He stumbled forward, even as he turned to face his attacker, already knowing the identity of his nemesis, already planning a heroic escape so he could live to fight another day. Luke and his crew, tanned and dazzling, stood grinning like loons behind him. The basketball he'd beaned Seth with bounced gently down the concrete until it slowly came to rest against the curb.

"Whoops," he laughed, leering. "Sorry, freak. Didn't see you standing there." He looked behind him to make sure he had the support of his crones. He must have been encouraged by what he saw there because he said, "What are you doing, Cohen? You don't actually think you have a chance with these girls, do you?"

"Luke," Seth whispered, cheeks flushing. "I was just leaving."

"He doesn't have to leave," Summer said with a swish of her hair. "You don't have to leave, Cohen."

Seth stared at her open-mouthed, blown away by her sudden acceptance. She flashed him a small smile and Seth gulped. His stomach was doing that weird flip-flop he'd come to associate with her, but this time it made him feel sick instead of giddy. Maybe he should have chosen the Mac' N' Cheese instead of the chili dogs for lunch.

"Are you kidding me?" Luke growled. "He's a freak, Summer."

"He doesn't look like a freak to me," Summer replied, unconcerned with the turn of events. She took his hand and Seth's stomach lurched.

Before he knew what was happening, before he could stop it, he'd thrown up the remains of his chili cheese dogs all over the concrete. Summer screeched and jumped back from him, ripping her hand from his like she'd suddenly discovered he had lice. He could hear Luke and his friends howling with laughter and Seth felt heat rush up his cheeks.

"Gross," Summer shrieked. "You almost barfed on me!"

"Oh no," Seth groaned as his humiliation churned his stomach. "Not agai—"

Whatever he was going to say was lost in another powerful heave of his stomach muscles and he wanted to sink into the concrete and die. This could only happen to him, happen to Seth Cohen…the freak. He could hear Luke laughing, hear somebody calling for the Recess Monitor, hear the girls as they coughed and gagged somewhere to his right. The first tears of humiliation pricked at his eyes, but he blinked them away. Things were bad enough. If he cried like a little baby in front of her? He'd never be able to look at her again.

He stood up and wiped a shaky hand across his mouth. He could feel the harsh, acidic remnants of his lunch in his mouth and he spat. His throat burned and his stomach ached. Seth watched with flushed cheeks as the Recess Monitor, Mrs. Lewinsky, rushed over to him. He wished Thor would come and smite him with a lightning bolt, maybe hit him around the head a few times with his hammer so he could forget the events of the day.

"Seth," Mrs. Lewinsky whispered. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," he groaned. "I don't know what happened. I just—"

"Do you smell that?" Luke suddenly crowed. "Ugghh, what stinks?"

Seth looked up sharply and met Luke's eyes. His nemesis stared calmly back at him, a sadistic smile creeping up his lips. Luke took a few steps towards him and sniffed as if trying to decipher the location of a specific scent. His face wrinkled in disgust and he pinched his nose dramatically.

"Uggghh," he shouted, loud enough for the entire playground to hear him. "It's the freak. It's Cohen."

"Luke," Mrs. Lewinski snapped. "That wasn't very nice. Apologize this instant, young man."

"No," Seth began. "Please, its okay. I don't want him to—"

"I'm sorry," Luke smirked. "I'm sorry that his breath smells like something crawled in his throat and died. It's not my fault he's got death breath, Mrs. Lewinsky. I think we should call him Death Breath Seth from now on just to warn people not to get too close. They might die from the smell."

Mrs. Lewinsky had hauled Luke to the principal's office, but the damage had been done. He would be known as Death Breath Seth throughout the rest of elementary school and on into junior high. Summer had never stood up for him again, never even spoke to him, and he slowly faded from her memory until he doubted she'd even remember that fateful day in fourth grade. The day Seth Cohen gave up. The day he'd officially become invisible. It was better than being humiliated. Being lonely was better than being hated.

So he'd passed through life like a ghost. The Casper of Newport. The spook of Harbor High. His parents tried to get him involved, tried to get him into clubs and sports. They couldn't understand why he'd always refused, why he was happier lying on his bed in his room listening to punk and reading comic books. They couldn't understand why he chose video game characters over real people, why he chose to live through books and movies. But, then again, they'd never asked him why. Perhaps he was that good at hiding it or perhaps they didn't want to know. A problem unseen was really no problem at all.

As the years began to fly by, Seth became convinced that the only way for him to have a chance at happiness was to get the hell out of Newport. Get the hell out of California, all together. He'd sail to some exotic island and live out his days alone but content. He'd move to the East Coast, the land his father had tried so hard to escape, and live somewhere sophisticated like New York or Boston. He'd buy a plane to somewhere in Europe and travel across its history filled lands, hitchhiking when needed and sleeping in hostels. There were so many possibilities. So many adventures that he could have. Hell, he was even open to working on a dairy farm in Wisconsin if it got him out of California.

He'd begun leaving brochures to boarding schools out east on his father's desk or in his mother's purse. He wasn't usually known for subtlety, but he figured he should ease his parents into the idea of him moving away from them. He waited, patiently…or what he considered patiently, for weeks for his mom and dad to bring up the subject. They would sit down for one of Kirsten's spontaneous and rarely planned family dinners and he would look at them both expectantly, but the subject never came up. School ended and Seth was expected to return back to Harbor with the same close-minded bikini clad babes and trust fund punks as the year before. And then, perhaps two months before Ryan came, his mother had finally breached the topic Seth had been waiting for.

He'd been playing _Grand Theft Auto _and had just stolen a cop car right from underneath the officer's nose. He planned on driving it to his house and showing it to his hooker girlfriend. Perhaps he would have a shootout with the police on the way. He heard his mother come through the front door, but he didn't say anything in greeting. She was usually too preoccupied to answer him, anyways.

Seth continued to play as Kirsten made her way into the kitchen, her purse hitting the counter with the soft swish of designer leather. She was rummaging through it, probably looking for the cellphone that was never far from her ear, when Seth heard her sigh in frustration.

"Seth," Kirsten called. "Come in here, please."

"One second," Seth shouted back to her. "I'm just reaching a new record on my pedestrian kill score." He ran over another innocent bystander in his stolen cop car and cackled.

"Seth," Kirsten growled at him, striding over to where her son was sitting. "Now."

"Mom," Seth sighed. "You're in the way. I can't see where I'm going. If I crash this thing I'll have nothing to bring back to my hooker girlfriend."

"What?" Kirsten frowned, turning to stare at the television. "Seth Cohen, what kind of game are you playing that allows you to have a hooker girlfriend?"

"All the kids are playing it," Seth said, eyes glued on the screen. "I'm just trying to connect with my youth, Mom." He frowned when the cop car jumped the curb and hit a fire hydrant, denting in the front bumper and sending water cascading into the digital air. "Go away. I'm trying to be a thug and you're cramping my style."

Kirsten raised her brows at her son, then turned and promptly unplugged the television and the _Playstation _from the wall. The T.V. turned off with a slight pop and hiss of static electricity and inky blackness covered the screen.

"Mom," Seth yelled, staring at her incredulously. "You could have at least waited until I'd saved."

"Saved who, Seth? You're hooker girlfriend?"

"Mom, don't say hooker. Its weird. And no. If Cherry dies I'll just find a new hooker. Every woman in this game is either a pedestrian or a hooker. It's like finding pennies on the sidewalk, you know? You keep walking and you're bound to find one sooner or later. Sometimes you find a whole group of them and you've got enough pennies to last you a lifetime. Only, instead of bringing you good luck they'll sleep with you for mon—"

"No mother wants to hear her son say hooker that many times…ever," Kirsten interrupted, holding up a hand. "Seth, we need to talk."

"About hookers? Because that is a conversation I would prefer to have with Dad."

"This has nothing to do with hookers, Seth. But, it has everything to do with the little pamphlets you keep leaving in my purse."

Seth perked up instantly. This conversation was long overdo and even though he'd been subjected to the emotional trauma of hearing his mother say hooker, he would take it in whatever form it came in.

"They're boarding schools, "Seth told her.

"I gathered that," Kirsten said dryly. "Why are you putting them in my purse?"

"Because I want to go."

"To boarding school?"

"Yes."

"What about Harbor, Seth? What about your friends?"

"What friends?" Seth sighed.

"Seth," Kirsten scowled. "You have friends."

"Really, Mom? Are my friends invisible? Because I can't seem to find them anywhere."

"You go out," Kirsten told him. "I see you go out. If you don't have friends, then where do you go?"

"Sailing," Seth told her quietly. "Skateboarding. Down to the pier to play at the arcade. Sort of one man activities."

"What about those parties you are always going to?" Kirsten asked, refusing to believe she'd missed something this big in her son's life.

"You mean the parties you make me go to?" Seth snapped. "The parties where I always end up thrown in the pool or locked in the closet? Are those the parties you're talking about, Mom?"

"Seth," Kirsten began.

"Mom," Seth pleaded. "Please, let me go. I have never wanted anything more than this in my whole life. I'm not happy here. I've never been happy here."

"Seth, this is just part of growing up. Kids can be cruel. When I was a kid I—"

"You don't get it," Seth said, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have expected you to."

"What is that supposed to mean, Seth?"

"Mom, where the hell have you been?" Seth yelled, standing up angrily. "Are you this blind to what goes on around you? You've never looked up from your work long enough to realize that I'm unhappy, to realize how I'm treated here."

"Seth, that's not true!"

"Really?" Seth asked bitterly. "You think my Bar Mitzvah was the first time nobody showed up for one of my parties, Mom? You think it was the last time? Have you ever seen me with kids my own age? Let's face it. You were too busy to notice and Dad is too involved in his crusade to save the needy that he doesn't even realize his own son is floundering. This whole family is floundering."

"Seth," Kirsten began.

"You think a family dinner every once in a while is going to fix the gap here, but it won't. I don't know if anything will. The only thing I know is that if nobody here is going to look out for me then I've got to start looking out for myself. I've got to get out of here before I become completely invisible…even to myself. I _need_ you to let me do this, Mom. Please, I promise that I'll never ask you for anything ever again. You'll be able to concentrate on work instead of having to deal with me and—"

"Is that what you think I want?" Kirsten asked harshly.

"Mom," Seth said, almost gently. "They don't call you the Ice Queen around here for nothing."

His mother had stared at him with an expression on her face that he'd never seen before. There was hurt there. Anger. And shame. Seth couldn't look at her like that. He shrugged his shoulders listlessly.

"Think about it," he told her softly. "But, I can't stay here another school year, Mom. I won't stay here."

His mother had not brought up boarding school with him again and Seth had taken all the pamphlets and thrown them away. He'd made his argument. All that was left for him to do was wait for the decision. Would he leave with his parent's blessings or leave without them? He sometimes heard his parents arguing about his future late at night, but he couldn't ever get a read on which direction they were heading towards. Either way, come the first day of school, he was gone. He counted the days until his escape on his wall calendar with the names of the places he imagined he would go.

Except he'd never gotten the chance to run. Never gotten the chance to flee the nest because Kid Chino had arrived in Newport. His father had finally pulled a Kirsten and brought his work home with him. Seth had been warned about Ryan's presence in the pool house and while he was instantly intrigued he was also wary of getting himself in some kind of altercation with a kid who could probably wipe the floor with him in two seconds flat. So he hid in the house and tried to get Sandy to spill the beans on their new houseguest becoming more and more frustrated every time his father said the words 'client-attorney privilege'.

The first night Ryan had spent with them Seth had lain awake for hours, staring up at the ceiling, and imagining all sorts of life scenarios for the new kid on the block. He knew he'd stolen a car with his brother, knew his mother had kicked him out, knew Sandy had gotten him out of jail, but that was it. With an imagination like Seth's such trivial information worked wonders and by the time he woke up the next morning he was convinced that Ryan was a giant, bald thug with forearms the size of boulders and a snake tattoo wrapped around his biceps with a tongue that moved when he flexed.

He certainly hadn't expected the young man that had come through the patio door, blinking blearily at him from the bright California sun. Somehow Ryan managed to be even more intimidating in the flesh than Seth had imagined him to be, but at the same time there was vulnerability in him that Cohen hadn't expected. The kid was shorter than Seth had pictured, but his lack of height only made the way he filled out his wife beater more noticeable. Seth had to fight the urge to gulp dramatically at the muscles he could clearly see bunched beneath Ryan's skin. There was no beefiness there, but there was strength and a certain undertone of danger to the way he held himself that let Seth know he wasn't someone he wanted to mess with. He doubted Ryan even knew he was projecting the tough, badass persona Seth would come to know so well, but that knowledge didn't make Seth any less nervous.

He hadn't wanted to be the one to speak first, but from the uncertain look on Ryan's face it became clear rather quickly that he would have to. He wondered what the kid had to be so nervous about. Seth was obviously the one at a disadvantage in this situation. He was fairly certain that if he said the wrong thing and offended their guest, Ryan could cross the room and smash his skull in less time than it took Seth to open his mouth and scream. He thought about making a long speech, welcoming him into their home, asking if he wanted a breakfast sandwich despite not knowing how to make one, and generally talking his ear off. He probably would have, but for the first time in perhaps his entire life, something told him to keep it simple.

"Wanna play?" he asked, holding up his controller.

He'd expected a contemptuous smile, a snort of derision, or at the very least, an avid refusal. He expected a guy like Ryan hung out with gang members and hardened criminals and would have no interest in a weakling like him. But, he hadn't gotten a snort or a mocking smile. What he got was a small, uncertain nod of ascension and before he really could comprehend what was happening he was sitting beside a hardened criminal, eating a bowl of cereal and planning to play video games with him.

"We could play _Zelda_," Seth suggested nervously. "Or _Mortal Kombat_. There is this girl on there that can whip people in the face with her hair and she reminds me of Storm from _X-Men._ I don't know if you know what _X-Men _is, but—"

"I know what _X-Men_ is," Ryan told him quietly.

"Well," Seth began. "Do you know the comic book _X-Men_ or the movie _X-Men_? They are pretty different. You see that a lot with comics that transition into movies. It never seems to transfer the right way. Personally I think they should have Stan Lee, or whoever the creator of the comic book is, direct the films. That way there won't be as much material lost and the movie experience would be a lot more gratifying than if they—"

Seth trailed off at the look on Ryan's face. The young man had his spoon hanging down over his chin and his eyebrows were raised, but whether he was amused or annoyed Seth couldn't tell.

"I talk a lot," Seth told him nervously. "It's a condition I've had since birth. Not that I could talk at birth, but my mom says that if I could have I would have. She says that once I started I never stopped and I suppose that's true. Sometimes I say things I shouldn't. You know, like if a girl asks if a dress makes her look fat, instead of telling her she doesn't I'll talk her ear off about society's standards for female beauty or something. I try not to talk because talking usually gets me in trouble, but the harder I try the more I talk so its almost pointless for me to try to begin with, you know?"

Ryan blinked as if trying to process everything Seth had just said to him. His face was still an unreadable mask and Seth could feel his heart pounding away at his chest. He wasn't afraid of Ryan, but the guy's silence unnerved him. He wasn't used to being listened to so intently and he was worried that he'd scared off the only person to take an active interest in him in years.

"_Mortal Kombat _sounds fine," Ryan said eventually, taking the spoon out of his mouth long enough to say those four words then replacing the utensil between his teeth.

"You don't talk much, do you?" Seth asked as he popped the disc into the console.

"Not much to say," Ryan shrugged, pulling out the spoon and placing it in the bowl holding his soggy _Lucky Charms _and milk.

"I talk a lot," Seth repeated, wishing he could slap himself in the face the moment the words were out.

"I know," Ryan said after a pause. "You told me."

"What I'm trying to say is that if I start to annoy you," Seth began. "You know, talk too much or something, you can just tell me to stop. Or, since words don't seem to be your forte, you could always punch me or—"

There was a flicker of emotion in Ryan's eyes that made Seth trail off for the second time in five minutes. He couldn't identify exactly what it was, but he'd never seen it on anybody in Newport before and for the first time since Ryan had arrived Seth began to see how different their worlds were. There was pain there, anger, regret, but unlike the plastic emotions the Newpies had to go along with their plastic implants, Ryan's emotions were real and they were deeply connected to who he was.

"Or…or something," Seth finished lamely.

The two young men passed into an awkward silence and Seth nearly jumped out of his skin when the theme music to _Mortal Kombat _came blaring from the speakers. He whipped his head around at the noise and swore loudly. When he turned back, Ryan was looking at him, the hint of a smile playing around the edges of his lips. This time there was no anger or regret in his eyes. This time there was warmth and Seth watched as Ryan transformed before his eyes. The tension in his muscles released and the expressionless mask disappeared. The giant emotional wall that had been between them came crumbling to the ground.

"Jumpy," Ryan remarked with a small smile. "Someone might think you're scared to fight me."

"Fight you?" Seth choked.

"Isn't that the point of _Mortal Kombat_?" Ryan asked, holding up the controller and rolling his eyes.

"Oh," Seth breathed. "Yeah. I thought you meant—"

"I know what you thought," Ryan said softly.

"Ryan, I didn't mean—"

"Its okay," Ryan said patiently, as if he'd been saying that his whole life and no longer believed it. "Besides, I wouldn't fight you, Seth. It would be to easy."

"Who would you fight?" Seth asked, sitting down beside him and grabbing the nearest controller.

"People," Ryan said, eyes going flat.

"What people?"

"Are we going to play this game or not?" Ryan asked him quietly, making it more than clear that he was done answering questions for the moment.

"Yeah," Seth said as Ryan put the spoon back in his mouth. "Get ready to get your ass kicked, buddy."

Ryan's eyes flickered over to him at the term of endearment, but he didn't say anything and Seth took that as a good sign. Of course, considering that Seth could count the number of sentences Kid Chino had said to him on one hand, he had to entertain the idea that Ryan didn't deem him important enough to correct. The thought was a sobering one and it played throughout his mind for the rest of their day together. Maybe he was just playing the part he needed to play in order to get into Sandy's good graces. Maybe he was just waiting until he didn't need them any longer and then he would let Seth know his true feelings.

That hadn't stopped Seth from trying to be friendly. The guy wouldn't share much of himself, but that was okay. Seth had plenty of topics to talk about and, if Ryan was playing a part, he deserved an Academy Award. He listened patiently as Seth babbled on and on, inputting his thoughts when needed, but otherwise letting him talk. It felt good to have someone listen to him for a change. It made him feel more optimistic about the world as a whole. Ryan seemed interested in his plans to sail and intrigued by Summer, two things that meant the world to Seth.

He'd successfully steered Ryan through the treacherous and shark infested waters of the Newport party scene. The look on Ryan's face when the first waiter had approached him with a plate full of foods made to be pronounced in a snooty French accent was priceless and the way he turned every woman's head without even trying was impressive. Ryan seemed to face their inquiries about his past with a sort of indifference that bordered on amusement. The best part was that Ryan barely had to say a word for the bored housewives of Newport to fall all over themselves. His silence reduced them to tittering school girls and Seth could see his mother watching him like a hawk. Seth suspected this was more because the women were looking at Ryan like he was a new toy to play with than her worry that Ryan would cause trouble.

Somehow Ryan convinced him to attend the party at Holly's beach house. He wasn't sure why Kid Chino wanted to go, but Summer was going to be there and maybe, with Ryan as his wingman, Seth would be able to work up the courage to talk to her. He remembered walking through the front door behind Ryan and seeing the intense displays of sex, drug use, and drinking that seemed to plague the trust-fund community. Seth's stomach lurched in discomfort, but one look at Ryan's face told Seth that Kid Chino felt in his element there. He passed by the kids doing drugs without so much as a second glance even though the substances there were much harder than marijuana. The white powder of cocaine, the pills of every shape and size that could only be homemade E, the needles spread out on the table, emptied of their contents. Wherever Ryan came from, whatever his home life had been, scenes like this weren't unusual. In fact, Seth suspected that if Ryan had come through the door to find a quiet mixer instead of an intense rager he would have had no idea how to handle himself.

Seth tried to keep up with him, tried to keep track of where Ryan was in case he needed somebody to help him make a quick escape, but Ryan had disappeared into the crowd. People were pressing drinks into his hand and Seth drank them without question, slightly alarmed at his behavior. Then he'd found the keg and his night had become a blur. There were intense flashes of clarity followed by hazy images that didn't connect with one another. Summer wrapped around Ryan's neck like she was the stripper and he was the pole. A flash of courage and rage that allowed him to slam Kid Chino against the wall. Screaming out Ryan's past to every teen in Newport. The look on Ryan's face when he did; the horror, the pain, and the shame. The beach fire, tilted upside down, as the water polo team held him by his legs. The realization that, once again, he was alone. The dazed amazement when he heard Ryan's voice through the jeering laughter and cruel taunts. The disbelief that followed as he watched, as if in slow motion, Ryan sink his fist into Luke's face. The scuffle that followed and the pain as his jawbone was bruised. The walk home was hazy, but the conversation they'd had in the pool house he remembered well enough, or at least the only part that was important. Ryan had his back.

But Seth had been an only child for too long. It had been easy, almost sensible, to think of himself when there had only been himself to think of. In fact, he was an only child in more ways than one. He had no siblings to share with, true enough, but he had no cousins either. There were no distant relations with children or long time friends of his parents, at least not friends with kids Seth actually _wanted _to hang out with. He was on his own and, as a result, had become rather self-centered. He didn't mean to be. Usually he didn't even know he was doing it until somebody pointed it out to him. His single child status wasn't an excuse for his behavior, but Seth was positive that the two were connected. The fact of the matter was that Ryan had his back, but he hadn't had Ryan's.

There it was. Out in the open. He hadn't been there for Ryan when he should have. He'd been so obsessed with the idea that a specimen from the female species wanted him that he'd dismissed Ryan's troubles. At the time he'd thought that Ryan could handle it. Ryan handled everything. Sometimes disastrously. Sometimes violently. But he always handled it. He didn't think that Ryan would find any kind of trouble when all he was doing was visiting his brother in a jail with dozens of armed guards around every corner. That was the problem though. He didn't think.

"Seth," Sandy said quietly, leaning his head out of Ryan's room. "Aren't you coming, son? Visiting hours are almost over."

Seth looked up at his father. Sandy had been superman to him once, but that was a long time ago. Now he just looked beaten and worn down. Seth frowned. He looked like Ryan had after he'd discovered his mother had abandoned him the first time. Like he had when Dawn had so casually brought up the fact that her ex had put his hands on her and Ryan too many times. How many times was too many? How much pain did one person have to go through to look as beaten down as Ryan had, as his father did now? Did he look like them? Was the aching, crushing pain in his chest what came from caring about somebody?

"I don't know if I can go in there," Seth said hoarsely. "I don't know if I can see him like that."

An hour ago he'd been determined to see Ryan and would have done everything short of karate chopping the nurse and sneaking into the ICU. Now that he was there, separated from Ryan by only a few feet of plywood and plaster, he was terrified. The strong antiseptic stench that permeated every hospital Seth had ever been in assaulted his nose and the incessant blips of the heart monitor nearly drove him up the wall. He'd been sick almost instantly and had to sit with his head between his knees lest he pass out. After that, he'd merely sat there, knees up so that he didn't trip the various nurses and doctors that came back and forth in a steady stream. His parents had gone in almost 90 minutes ago, but still Seth sat against the wall.

"Seth," Sandy said gently, coming to sit beside him in the hallway. "I know this is difficult. It's difficult for all of us. If you don't want to go in there you don't have to."

"I do have to," Seth said harshly. "I should have been there for him earlier and I wasn't. I can't bail on him now. He's…he's my…" Seth felt tears on his cheeks and he wiped them away furiously with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to meet Sandy's gaze. "He's my best friend, Dad. He's my only friend."

"I know," Sandy said. "Seth, he's important to all of us."

"You don't understand," Seth whispered. "Dad, Ryan was the first person who listened to me. Really listened. He was there for me when I had no one. I was nothing, I was invisible, but he saw me. And now…now he's in there…and I'm out here, healthy and alive. Why? Why does he deserve to have his life go to shit when all he's ever done is try and protect people? Why do I get two parents? A house? Food to eat? Why do I get that stuff, but Ryan doesn't? Why do I go my whole life without breaking a single bone and Ryan's broken a dozen? Why is it that when I just begin to live he has to die?"

"He's not dead yet, Seth," Sandy said softly. "As for your questions…I don't know." He shook his head. "You know, a father dreads the moment his kid finally asks a question they don't know the answer to. Why is the sky blue? Where did dinosaurs go? Or, your personal favorite, who does Superman's laundry? They're all easy. Why is life unfair? That's a question no parent is prepared for because there is no answer. There is no easy way to tell your child that sometimes bad things happen to good people. That there is cruelty, hatred, and prejudice in the world we live in. Realizing that is part of growing up, Seth. It doesn't make it any easier to handle or digest, but everyone goes through it. Some people don't learn it until they're my age. Some, like your grandfather, learn it and take advantage of it. And some, like Ryan, learn that life is unfair before they learn their multiplication tables and they adapt to it, harden themselves until every blow fate deals them is just a dent in their armor."

"What are you trying to say, Dad?"

"I guess I'm saying that this is your moment, Seth. This is the moment you learn that life isn't always fair. I hate that it had to be this way, son. I really do. I hate that Ryan is in there clinging to life by a thread. I hate the bastard that did this to him. But you know what?"

"What?" Seth asked softly.

"I may hate it," Sandy told him. "I may hate it with every breath I have, but it won't change anything. The cards have been played and now we can only wait and see what the deck holds for us, kid. Ryan is a fighter. He's a fighter because life made him that way. Because it gave him no other choice." Sandy leaned his head against his son's. "You have a choice, Seth. You can sit here and shake your fist at the world for being unfair. Or you can get in there and fight with him."

"I'm scared," Seth whispered.

"Its okay to be scared, Seth. I'm practically shaking in my boots. The second I stepped in that room I wanted to get the hell out because reality is ten times more frightening than imagination. But, I stayed. I stayed because of Ryan. Because he deserves to have someone stick by him. The kid's been alone long enough."

"Dad," Seth said. "Can—can I have some time alone with him?"

"Sure," Sandy smiled tiredly. "I'll get you when its time to leave. Tell your mother to come out here. The nurse just paged and said the police are here."

"You should get down there then," Seth told him, getting to his feet, his legs stiff from being stationary for so long.

"They can wait. I wanted to make sure you were okay first. Are you?"

"No," Seth said honestly. "But I'll manage."

"That's all you can ever do, Seth. I'm proud of you."

Seth nodded and turned towards the doorway. He could hear the Darth Vader like wheeze of the ventilator and his heart stuttered. He grit his teeth and shook the feeling away. Ryan had his back. It was time for Seth to have Ryan's.

Kirsten glanced up at him from Ryan's bedside, her eyes red and her cheeks blotchy. He could barely see the outline of Ryan's leg beneath a blue sheet and the tips of Ryan's fingers. That alone was enough to almost undermine every ounce of courage he'd managed to muster. He met Kirsten's eyes and she nodded. He didn't have to ask what she already knew. She kissed his forehead as she passed him and Seth leaned into her touch, seeking the comfort that could only come from a mother.

"I'll be waiting to take you home," she whispered to him. "Your father is going to stay with him tonight."

"Okay," Seth said. "I'll find you when I'm done." He turned to his father. "I just realized something, Dad. I always felt invisible, but Ryan was sort of invisible to, wasn't he?" His father looked at him strangely. "People knew he was there, but it was like he didn't matter to them. That's the same as being invisible, I think. Maybe that's why he saw me, you know? Maybe it takes an invisible man to know one."

"Maybe," Sandy rasped, voice harsh with emotion. "Or maybe he sensed you needed a friend. And you sensed he needed a brother."

Seth smiled at his parents, took a deep breath, and stepped into the dimly lit hospital room that had been his nightmare for the past hour. He had been expecting a scene from some sort of science fiction movie, tubes of viscous fluids, wires sprouting haphazardly all around them, the crackle of electricity. What he saw was nothing like the movies. There was no fiction in the ICU that night. Only hard, cold reality.

Seth moved to the chair by the bed and sunk down it, staring at Ryan in disbelief. He methodically took in every detail of his friend's condition, memorized the exact location of every tube, every electrode and every machine. There were so many tubes that Seth began to lose track of where one ended and the other began. A bag of blood hung next to a bag of saline on an I.V. stand in the corner and Seth trailed his eyes to where their tubes disappeared, one in Ryan's hand and the other in the crook of his elbow. There was some kind of catheter stuck in Ryan's other arm, but it didn't look like it was administering or taking anything. His eyes followed the clear plastic up to where it hooked into the EKG machine and he watched the various wavelengths flow across the screen. A piece of tape on the right side of Ryan's neck hid another I.V., but Seth didn't know its purpose any more than he did the others. The only tube he identified right away was the impossibly thick one inserted in Ryan's open mouth, held down by medical tape. He knew it ran down his throat, over his vocal cords, and into his lungs where it forced his body to breathe as if it no longer knew how to. The endotracheal tube or something like that.

He watched, mesmerized as Ryan's chest rose and fell softly, as if Kid Chino was merely sleeping. It gave him an excuse to look at something other than how waxy his skin looked, how sunken his cheekbones were. The dark shadows beneath Ryan's eyes stood out starkly against the pallor of his face. Seth imagined that if he could see them Ryan's lips would be cracked and dry. He reached out a tentative hand and squeezed Ryan's fingers, hoping, praying for some kind of response. In the movies there was always some twitch, some clue to the audience that not all hope was lost. But, as Seth had learned many times over that night, life was not the movies. Ryan didn't so much as twitch and his fingers were so lifeless and cold in Seth's hand that he immediately let go.

A quiet knock on the door alerted Seth to the presence of a rather plump, but pleasant looking nurse. She smiled at him and for some strange reason he could not understand he felt calmed by her presence. The nurse bustled into the room and began to chart Ryan's readings and diagnostics.

"Don't mind me," she clucked absently. "Just pretend I'm not here. You've only got fifteen minutes left for visiting hours, you know."

"Fifteen minutes?" Seth croaked. "But…I just got here. That's not long enough."

The nurse turned to appraise him quietly from across the room and she frowned softly. Her gaze flickered to Ryan and her expression softened.

"The hospital clearly states that visiting hours are from 7-9 pm," she told him. "I'm afraid that those are the rules, dear. But, hypothetically someone could squeeze an extra thirty minutes out of it if a nurse just happened to make her rounds and didn't see you." She smiled at him gently. "You understand what I'm saying, sweetheart?"

"Yes," Seth said. "Thank you."

"For what?" she quipped with a wink. "I haven't done anything."

"Right. Right. What are you doing?"

"Checking this poor dear's vitals," the nurse told him. "Each of these tubes measures something different."

"I know what the electrodes are for," Seth said, standing up and moving beside her. "And I know the I.V. lines and the ventilator tube. But, I don't know these." He pointed to the tube taped to the side of Ryan's neck and the one that disappeared into Ryan's opposite arm. "What do they measure?"

"Well," she said. "You're a curious one."

"I want to know," Seth said sheepishly. "Just in case…" He trailed off and shrugged his shoulders.

"Just in case?"

"What if something goes wrong? What if I'm the only person here and the monitor is picking up something dangerous, but I don't know what it is. What if there is an earthquake and it knocks out the power? What if the backup generators don't turn on and—"

He stopped. If the hospital didn't have power and the backup generators didn't work there would be nothing to keep Ryan breathing. Nothing to keep his heart pumping. He would die because of an electric malfunction.

"Do these things have battery packs?" Seth asked frantically. "They should have battery packs, don't you think? All these guys in lab coats with PhD's and they can't even come up with an idea as simple as battery packs? Lots of things have battery packs these days. Laptops, cellphones, Ipods. Why can't there be battery packs for life support? I mean, if something happens and there's no power then all these people die, right? So battery packs just make sense, don't they? And yet, I don't see a single battery pack. Not one! You expect me to trust you with Ryan's life when you don't even have a damn batter pack to keep his life support running if something goes wrong. There would be nothing anyone could do to save him. Nothing I could do to…to…" He slumped down in the chair and put his head in his hands. "There's nothing I can do. Is this what he feels like? Helpless? Or does he feel anything at all? Does he even know I'm here? I don't know what I'm supposed to do." He looked up at the nurse, but didn't bother to wipe his tears away. Not this time. "Tell me what I'm supposed to do."

"Be there for him," the nurse told him gently. "That's all anyone can do. The rest is between him and his maker, whoever that may be. And, most importantly, don't give up hope. I've seen hope do some powerful things around here and after thirty years of working in this hospital and seeing families just like yours I truly believe that hope is stronger than any medicine." She pulled Seth to his feet. "Now, dry your tears, young man, because I'm only going to explain this once."

"That line in his neck is called the CVP line," the nurse explained methodically. "It measures venous blood pressure. That means it—"

"Blood that's returning to the heart," Seth supplied, calling upon his knowledge of biology and human anatomy.

"Right," the nurse nodded, impressed. "And this line in his arm is the arterial line. It fits right into one of his arteries and measures the level of oxygen and carbon dioxide in his blood." She pointed down to the bag hanging just below Ryan's bedside and grimaced. "I'm sure you know what that is."

"A Foley catheter," Seth guessed. "Its where—well, it's the toilet bag, right?"

"Yes," the nurse said with a small smile. "They haven't inserted his feeding tube yet, but if and once they do that bag will come in handy."

"A feeding tube?" Seth asked, swallowing. "Where do they put that?"

"Usually in the stomach here," the nurse explained, pointing to a spot on Ryan's belly. "They surgically insert the tube right into the smaller intestine so that he can get the nutrients he needs. If he makes it through tonight they'll insert one in the morning."

"Okay," Seth said softly, not sure he wanted to know anymore. "Thanks for explaining it to me."

"Did it help ease your mind a bit?"

"Not really." He thought about it. "Not at all, actually."

"It was worth a try."

"Yeah."

"I have rounds to do," she told him, glancing up at the clock. "You have thirty minutes and then I have to kick you out. I'm already breaking the rules by letting you stay."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Seth told her with a small smile.

"That's the ticket. And, remember, sweetheart…don't give up hope."

She disappeared from the room and once again Seth was left alone with Ryan, the blip of the monitor, and the rasp of the ventilator. He instantly wished she would come back. What was he supposed to do now? The nurse said be there for him, but what the hell did that mean anyway? Was he supposed to talk to him?

Seth considered this. He was good at talking. He'd established that with Ryan from the very first day. If Seth closed his eyes and tuned out the various hospital sounds around him he could talk to him as if he weren't comatose. It wasn't like Ryan had a whole lot to say in their conversations anyways. On his broody days it was a task just to get words with more than one syllable to pass his lips.

Seth sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He could do this. He _would _do this. Family had to stick together and Ryan was family now. He'd been family the second he'd stood up to Luke for him.

"Dude," Seth began. "You missed a complete disaster at Thanksgiving today. Now, I know what you're thinking, how could your day be any crazier than mine? Normally I would agree with you, but today—today was like Defcon 5, dude. My mom and dad decided it would be a good idea to set up some kind of weird blind date between Mr. Cooper and this girl my dad works with. Who does that? I mean, a blind date on Thanksgiving?" Seth imagined Ryan's expression and smiled. "I know, crazy. But, it gets better. Guess who showed up at our door?" Seth paused as if actually waiting for a reply. Ryan would have merely shrugged anyways. "Julie Cooper and my grandpa. That whole thing is so messed up, dude. Your girlfriend's mom is like my grandmother." Seth made a face and shivered. "You put my dad and my grandfather in the same room and there is always bound to be trouble. It's like they're constantly playing sharks and minnows, but they switch roles just to keep things interesting. Everything sort of fell apart after that." Seth shook his head. "But, I haven't gotten to the best part yet. So, you know Anna was coming over and you know that Summer kissed me on her boat? Well…"

Seth told Ryan the story of his Thanksgiving debacle. He told him about Anna kissing him and about Summer kissing him and how surreal it felt to be wanted by two people at one time, one of whom hadn't even known he'd existed. He talked until his voice was hoarse and the nurse finally came to kick him out.

He still couldn't help Ryan physically. He couldn't get him a battery pack for his life support or make his eyes open with a magic word. He couldn't breathe for him and he couldn't make his heart beat. But, there was one thing Seth could do for his brother. One thing he'd been gifted at for years.

Seth could talk. He could chatter mindlessly about people he didn't really care about, places he had never been to. He could talk about anything from music to books. He was good at talking.

Maybe there wasn't any point. Maybe Ryan couldn't hear him, couldn't know that Seth was there for him. Maybe his words would be falling on deaf ears, but Seth didn't care.

Because maybe, just maybe Ryan could hear him. Maybe knowing that Seth was there for him would give him a reason to fight harder, to be the lean and dangerous kid from Chino that nobody should mess with.

It was a small glimmer of hope to have. Seth knew that. But a small glimmer was all he needed. After all, even a light as bright as the sun was a glimmer somewhere. A glimmer of hope to Seth could be Ryan's sun. It could be a light in the darkness for his brother to follow.

A light to follow back to Seth. To Sandy and Kirsten.

A light to follow home.


	7. Big Boys Don't Cry

Sandy had never liked talking to police.

He recognized the duty they performed, the sacrifices they made, and Sandy respected them for that, but he always felt the familiar twinge of nervous discomfort whenever he was forced to deal with them personally. He'd tried to explain his anxiety to Kirsten once, but she hadn't understood. She'd grown up sheltered, safe in the suburbs of Newport Beach, and had never seen how cruel life could be. How easy it was to become a cold and distant person that didn't trust in anybody or anything but themselves. She hadn't know him in those days, hadn't seen how the Bronx had defined who he was.

New York had been a different place back then. Until Mayor Guiliani was elected, the streets had been crawling with crack addicts, mobsters, and, in the case of the Bronx, arsonists. He remembered watching the fires from his bedroom window as a child, remembered the fear that became an almost constant companion. He remembered watching people he'd known his whole life lose their homes because of the market crash and how, in their desperation, they burned their houses in order to get the insurance money that would offer them a new start. It rarely did. In those days, law enforcement was looked at the same way as the crack heads and the mobsters. 'Dirty cop' wasn't an unfamiliar term to hear on the streets or in whispered conversations between adults. Officers bought and sold protection like mothers bought groceries on Thanksgiving Day. If a criminal with connections wanted to put an end to an investigation or take out a key witness? Easy. Grease a few palms in the police department and the problem went away.

Of course, he wouldn't deny that there were good souls within the department. Men and women that set out to be cops because it gave them a chance to help others, to keep people safe from harm. The problem was…how do you know the difference between a good cop and a dirty cop? Both could make you feel safe, both could smile and insist that they were only doing what was best for the community, both could grant you promises of immunity and protection. But, while one was entirely sincere, the other was waiting for the right moment to blow your head off and passing it off to his superiors as a defensive shooting. Besides, even the good souls, the honest and virtuous, couldn't protect you from the monsters on the street, the demons lurking outside your windows that waited to pounce and devour snitches. The only solution was silence. The only way to stay alive was to stay away from cops.

Ryan would understand that. He would understand it in a way that Kirsten or Seth never could. He would understand it because he'd lived it. Sandy had seen the way Ryan's eyes shifted to follow the progress of a patrol car as it sped down the street, the way he would stare wearily at a cop if they passed while they were out and about. The way he tensed and only relaxed once he knew he was free and clear. There weren't very man dirty cops anymore. Mostly because many of them had no reason to be, but the fear of being called a snitch still ran rampant. Gangs killed snitches. So, Ryan and people like him, kept their mouths shut about anything and everything they may have been witness to.

Sandy often wondered what Ryan had been forced to witness over the years, but he was afraid to ask. He doubted the kid would answer him anyways. He'd become used to the look Ryan would give him if he asked something too personal, too close to the kid's heart. He would meet Sandy's eyes for a fleeting second before his gaze would shift away again, but Sandy could read the emotions there. Discomfort, pain, and a bone deep wariness that seemed entirely inappropriate to his age. Sandy recognized the look, but didn't push. Not the way Seth did. The way Seth needled and prodded until Ryan snapped and got angry. Never angry enough to cause physical harm, but enough to get Seth to back off…and quickly. The long deafening silences that would follow were so awkward that one of the boys usually left. If the altercation took place in Ryan's pool house, Seth would vacate the premises as fast as his legs could carry him. If it was in the main house Ryan would sigh, run a hand through his hair, and trudge out of the house like a reprimanded puppy.

Sandy stopped himself and shook the thoughts from his head. Thinking of Ryan hurt. Even now he could feel the tightening of his chest and the cocktail of worry, guilt, and sorrow rolling around in his belly. He shouldn't be here; shouldn't be talking to cops while his son lay comatose in a hospital bed three halls away from him. The only thing that was keeping him in his seat was the fact that Ryan wasn't alone. Seth was with him, for the moment anyway. The second his son came out of the electronic doors leading into the main hospital, Sandy would be up like a shot and be at Ryan's side in a matter of moments.

Sandy glanced up at the two cops sitting across from him and Kirsten. They'd introduced themselves as Officer Brody and Officer Ortega. Officer Brody was a grizzled veteran of a cop if Sandy had ever seen one. The man looked at least fifty, but Sandy had a hard time imagining him as anybody's grandfather. He filled out his uniform with a sort of leonine grace and his calculating eyes were hard and distant. When he spoke there was no warmth, no emotion at all. It was as if everyone he spoke with was a possible criminal. Guilty until proven innocent.

Ortega was the exact opposite. Sandy wondered how the two had ever ended up as partners. The young officer couldn't be more than thirty and still held the vivaciousness of youth that he would eventually lose as years passed. His chestnut colored eyes were warm and sincere and his tone was friendly. This man wanted to help them, wanted to help Ryan. Sandy liked him more than Brody and when he spoke he chose to spoke to him rather than his older partner.

"Mr. Cohen," Ortega said softly. "I'm sorry for the pain this must be causing you and your family. I promise we're going to do everything we can to catch the person behind this." He shifted uncomfortably for a moment. "However, there are some questions we need to ask."

"Of course," Kirsten whispered. "Whatever you need."

"Thank you," Ortega told her. "We'll try and get through this as quickly as we can. I know you'll want to be with your son."

"Was Atwood involved in any criminal activity that you're aware of?" Brody asked gruffly.

"No," Sandy said instantly. "He wasn't."

"Are you positive?" Brody said slowly, turning his hard gaze on Sandy. "It seems Mr. Atwood has had a run-in with the law on a previous occasion."

"He's not involved with anything," Sandy growled stonily. "I would know."

"Would you?" Brody remarked thoughtfully.

Sandy was seething. Who was this bastard? What right did he have to talk about Ryan like he was some kind of criminal? He didn't know him, didn't know what the kid had been through. What he was going through. He didn't know what he had sacrificed, what he'd lost.

"I don't think I like what you're insinuating," Kirsten said, frowning. "My husband and I know our kids, Officer Brody. Ryan wasn't involved in anything."

"Mrs. Cohen," Brody asked softly. "You've had Mr. Atwood in your home for a total of five months. How could you possibly know what he is or isn't involved in? This is the same young man that helped his brother steal a car and burned your model home down, is he not?"

"That was an accident," Sandy snarled. "It has nothing to do with why my son is fighting for his life right now. Stick to the issue at hand, Officer Brody, or I assure you that you're commanding officer will be hearing about it."

If Brody was concerned with Sandy's threat, he didn't show it. He merely shrugged his shoulders and said, "In a way it is relevant, Mr. Cohen. I am simply inquiring as to whether or not there is the slightest possibility Mr. Atwood was involved in something and you didn't know it."

"Ryan," Kirsten said coldly. "His name is Ryan."

"Please," Ortega said softly. "Mr. and Mrs. Cohen, my partner didn't mean to offend you or your family. I am sure Ryan is a great kid, but we have to do our jobs." He swallowed and looked at Sandy pleadingly. "Please understand."

"Then tell your partner to stop treating my kid like he's the bad guy," Sandy seethed. "Ryan is the victim here, Officer Ortega."

"I know," Ortega told him. "Just bear with us a little longer."

"When was the last time you spoke to Mr. Atwood?" Brody asked, refusing to call Ryan by name.

"We spoke to him on the phone," Kirsten replied. "Before the paramedics showed up and—"

"And before that?" Brody interrupted, ignoring his partner's withering stare.

"Before he left to see his brother," Sandy said between grit teeth.

"The brother who is currently in prison?" Brody asked, glancing at Sandy with cold eyes. "The brother who talked Mr. Atwood into stealing a car in the first place, Mr. Cohen? That brother?"

"Where the hell are you going with this?" Sandy snapped.

"It's interesting that Mr. Atwood was visiting his brother on the same day he was shot," Brody said. "He is arrested because his brother talks him into stealing a car. He is shot after seeing his brother. Seems like bad things happen when the two are put together, Mr. Cohen. One might think the brother talked the kid into another crime."

"Jesus Christ," Ortega hissed suddenly, turning on his partner. "Brody, shut the fuck up and act like a human being for once in your miserable life. You think you've been around the block a time or two, but you don't know anything about what it means to grow up the way this kid did. So keep your opinions to yourself unless I ask for them."

Sandy's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He wasn't sure which shocked him more: the way Ortega had shifted from calm and collected to a spitting cobra in a matter of seconds or the way Brody actually took his partner's advice. He looked closer at Ortega and noticed the tattoo that ran the length of his forearm. 'VNE' in swirled black letters was permanently etched into his olive toned skin. Ortega caught him looking and grinned softly.

"Varrio Nueva Estrada," he said in explanation. "I got involved with them when I was a kid."

"What's that?" Kirsten asked, glancing at Ortega's tattoo.

"It's a street gang," Sandy told her, looking at Ortega in a new light. "A pretty nasty one. What happened?"

"I got out," Ortega said simply. "Not much more to say than that. I became a cop to help kids that were stuck in similar situations. So, I get it, okay? I understand Ryan probably better than anyone at the moment. So, please, work with us and let me help him."

Sandy nodded once.

"Thank you," Ortega said to him before returning to business. "Did Ryan seem apprehensive at all when he was leaving? Did he say anything that might have suggested he was scared to see his brother?"

"Not really," Kirsten answered with a sidelong glance at her husband. "I mean, he had mixed feelings about it because Trey was the one who got him in trouble in the first place, but he didn't seem afraid of anything. I tried to tell him he didn't have to go, but…" She trailed off and shrugged her shoulders.

" With kids like Ryan family is everything," Ortega told her. "No matter what happens you stick with family. Those are the rules." He frowned. "Although, it seems that the relationship between Ryan and Trey is a complicated one."

"Do you think he's involved?" Kirsten asked, her hand resting on her heart.

"He's involved," Sandy said coldly. "I know he is."

"What makes you say that, Mr. Cohen?" Ortega asked.

"Because I know Ryan," Sandy explained. "Officer Ortega, what you said about family hit it right on the head. Ryan can't say no. Despite everything they have done to him, despite everything they put him through he's always ready to forgive and forget. He's not a dumb kid, Officer. He's smart as hell and resourceful, but he has a weakness for his family." Sandy broke off, trying hard to swallow the lump in his throat. "Ryan—Ryan wouldn't go looking for trouble, Officer Ortega. You have to believe that. He _wants _to be a good kid, to have a future. He tries so hard that sometimes it hurts watching him do it. But, Trey…Trey has some kind of hold on him. If anyone could get him in trouble like this it would be his older brother."

"We've talked to him," Brody said. "Questioned him."

"And?" Kirsten asked. "What did he say?"

"He said he didn't know a damn thing about it," Ortega whispered. "A five year-old could see he was lying, but he was adamant that he'd talked to Ryan and that was the end of it. He was upset and worried about his brother, but not enough to help us find his shooter."

Sandy cursed and Kirsten glanced up at him in surprise. She took his hand and he squeezed it gratefully. He was furious. Ortega had said that family was everything, but apparently Ryan and Trey didn't see eye to eye. Sandy would have to fix that. He had his methods and he wasn't about to feel guilty about using them on someone like Trey.

"What about Marissa?" Kirsten asked, watching her husband's face closely. "She was with Ryan during the shooting. She said so herself. Surely, she could tell you what happened."

"She could," Brody told them gruffly. "But, she won't."

"What?" Kirsten gasped. "Why the hell not?"

"She was going to," Ortega told her. "We got a little out of her, but before we got the full story her mother showed up and told her to keep her mouth shut."

"Julie," Kirsten hissed, narrowing her eyes. "This sounds exactly like something that bitch would do."

"I don't understand," Sandy said slowly. "Julie Cooper could stop you from questioning Marissa, but if Marissa comes forward on her own volition the police don't need a parent's consent. What's the hold up?"

"She won't come forward on her own," Ortega told him. "We don't know why, but until she does our hands are tied. With both Marissa and Trey keeping their mouths shut there is nowhere for us to go with this case, Mr. Cohen. The only definitive thing we know at the moment is that Ryan was bringing a car to a guy somewhere in Chino. That's as far as Marissa Cooper was able to get before her mother made an appearance."

"That's hardly anything at all," Kirsten whispered.

"I know," Ortega said.

"But," Kirsten ventured. "When Ryan wakes up he'll be able to tell you—" She broke off at Ortega's grimace and Brody's sigh.

"Mrs. Cohen," Ortega said gently. "Until Ryan regains consciousness we have nothing to go on. And, even if he does, his memory of the events might be scattered and confusing to follow. That's if he remembers them at all…or can even communicate them to us. Right now, Ryan isn't a reliable witness. And not just because he's comatose. A half-decent lawyer would tear him to bits, use his injuries against him." He shook his head. "How can a man that has suffered severe brain trauma be taken seriously as a witness if there is no guarantee that what he remembers is what actually happened? Without Trey and Miss Cooper, we're sunk. We don't even have a place to start looking."

"So, you're giving up?" Sandy asked softly. "Just like that?"

"Not at all," Ortega said. "We just need to regroup and see if we can't find anything in this mess. I'm hoping we can count on you to cooperate."

"Of course," Kirsten said. "We'll do whatever we can."

Ortega took out his card and placed it in Sandy's palm. There, written untidily in the top corner, was a phone number.

"Its my personal number," Ortega explained. "Call me if you think of anything. And let me know when he wakes up."

Sandy nodded and stared at the number a long time. He was aware of his wife standing and seeing the officers to the door of the waiting room, but he didn't get up. He just stared at the phone number until Kirsten came back to his side, trailing Seth along with her.

"They kicked me out," Seth explained, his face unusually pale.

"I should get up there then," Sandy whispered, pushing himself to his feet. "I don't want him alone."

"Sandy," Kirsten said to him. "Try and get some sleep, okay? You look like you're about to fall over?"

"I'll try," he said obediently. There was no chance he was going to sleep that night. The nurse had told them that the first 24 hours were critical and Sandy wasn't going to leave Ryan when he needed him most.

He hugged Seth and kissed Kirsten and before he'd even registered what happened he was back in the ICU, standing outside the door to Ryan's room. He took a deep steadying breath, wiped the grainy feeling from his eyes, and pushed the door open. Part of him was convinced he would see Ryan with his eyes open, sitting up in bed and waiting impatiently for him to arrive. He knew his hope was misguided, but it didn't stop his heart from breaking when Ryan hadn't woken.

Sandy pushed the door closed behind him and put his back against it, trying to get his emotions under control. He didn't want to cry in front of Ryan. He needed to be strong for him. Needed to show the kid that he believed with everything he had that Ryan would pull through. No doubt. No fear.

When the burning finally subsided from his eyes and the stinging from his nose, Sandy zombie walked over to the chair set out by Ryan's bedside. He didn't sit down, even though he was so exhausted his legs felt like they would collapse beneath him. Instead he put a steadying hand on the railing of Ryan's bed and watched the kid breathe, in and out, in steady rhythm. He reached his hand out and brushed a lock of blonde hair that the hospital vents had blown across his eyes. Ryan's skin was cool against the back of his fingers, but as his hand fell back to his side he grasped Ryan's hand in his own. He finally allowed himself to collapse back into the waiting chair, but his hand never let go of his son's.

"When we first met…," Sandy stopped and swallowed his tears. "When we first met I told you that we were cut from the same deck. I couldn't have been more wrong, Ryan. You are a much better man than I could ever hope to be, kid. You know that, right? I let myself get caught up in how angry I was, in how unfair life was, but you—you never did that. It seemed like you had, but now I realize that wasn't true. You gave and you gave and you gave, Ryan. Even when they tore you down, even when they abandoned you…you never stopped giving. You did what you had to in order to keep your family together and when I think about what that means…about what had to happen to you in order for that to happen…it makes me sick, kid."

"And then I come along," Sandy said, mindless of the tears streaking down his face. "I can imagine what you must of thought of me. You probably thought I was like everyone else, didn't you? An arrogant asshole who didn't give a damn about you or your wellbeing. I could see it in your eyes…the way you dismissed me the moment you sat down. To this day I don't know why you called me, kid. Why you decided to trust me. Maybe you didn't trust me at all. Maybe you simply had no other choice." Sandy leaned over and put his head on Ryan's bed. "I wanted to prove that I could help you…that you could have a future. I saw how smart you were, Ryan. How brave. I saw it from the moment I met you. I just never realized how good you are, how incredibly loyal and kind you could be. It wasn't until you came to stay with us that I realized what you really are. You're our savior, Ryan. My family was lost until you came along…until you adopted us. You protected Seth, you protected Kirsten, you protected me. And I—"

Sandy's shoulders shook with the force of his sobs. He couldn't stop them, no matter how hard he tried, and he watched through blurry eyes as his tears fell down and plopped against the tile floor.

"I failed you," Sandy rasped. "I swore I would protect you, but I failed. And now you're here, sitting in this hospital room, and I would give anything to trade places with you, kid. Anything. But, I can't, can I? Life doesn't work that way. You and I…we know that better than anyone." Sandy shook his head. "I should have been there for you, Ryan. You said you didn't need us, but I should have known better. I should have seen the signs and gone with you anyway. I guess I should have done a lot of things. We asked too much of you. I recognize that now. And now, in the moment that I should be taking care of everything, I have to ask something more of you."

Sandy looked up at his son and leaned over and put Ryan's palm against the spot where his heart beat within his chest.

"You feel that, Ryan? You feel how strong it is?" Sandy put his hand over Ryan's. "I want you to concentrate on that beat, kid. I want you to memorize it and keep it going. I know its unfair to ask this of you when it would be so much easier to keep sleeping. I can't promise you that life will be easy or that you'll be the same person you were, but I can promise that I'll be beside you every step of the way. Life is full of should haves, kid, full of things we can't change. I can't change what happened to you. No matter how much I wish I could. The only thing we can do is keep moving forward and I promise you'll never be alone again, Ryan. Not as long as my heart beats. Like its doing now. I need you to come back to us, kid." Sandy's tears dripped down on Ryan's hand and trailed down his arm. "Please, Ryan. I know its selfish of me to ask that of you. To ask you to endure that much pain and heartache, but I guess I've always been a selfish person. Just keep fighting. Don't give up, kid. I can't lose you now. I won't lose you."

"John," Sandy said. "The marine who helped you. He said something to Kirsten and I earlier. He said that you didn't understand why we were taking a chance on you. And I need you to know, kid. There is nobody in the entire world that deserves happiness as much as you do. I don't care what you've done in the past because I know that you are a good person. An incredible person. Its us who don't deserve you, Ryan. We are blessed because you chose to stay with us. We were people who happened to live in the same house but were on different paths. Then you came and finally made us a family. We are nothing without you, Ryan. You made us complete."

Sandy stood up once more and stared down at Ryan for a long time. There were so many things he wanted to tell him in that moment. So many things he wanted to say, but there were no words that did them justice. He wanted the kid to know how he felt, how determined he was to remain at his side.

"I'm going to find out who did this to you," Sandy told him suddenly. "I'm going to do anything I have to. I won't let them do this to anybody else, kid. I can promise you that. Tomorrow I'm going to visit Trey. I have no idea what I'm going to say to him. You would know his hot buttons better than I would, but I know he loves you. Maybe, if I tell him how bad things really are, he'll change his mind. I wish you could tell me what to do, Ryan. You are a wiser man than I could ever hope to be and you always seem to have the answer."

Sandy stopped and pressed the palms of his hands hard into his eyes to keep himself from crying again. This was harder than he thought it would be. How could he convey his feelings? How could he let Ryan know how much he needed him to pull through?

The answer suddenly hit him and Sandy's lips curled into a soft smile. His mother had never been an emotional woman and had been difficult to connect with. She and Ryan were a lot a like in that regards, but the kid would never be as mean as The Nana had been. Sometimes though, when Sandy had least expected it, his mother would do something that showed how much she truly cared about him. She would kiss his forehead, tell him that she loved him, and sing an old folk song in Hebrew.

Sandy closed his eyes and tried to recall the words to that song. He could see his mother sitting at the foot of his bed and hear her creaky voice crooning to him. The words began to come back to him and Sandy smiled. This was something he could give to Ryan. Something he could share with him and only him. He'd never done such a thing with Seth, had never shared that part of his life with him, but with Ryan—with Ryan it was different. He loved Seth, but there would be a part of Sandy that Seth would never understand. Not like Ryan would.

He leaned over Ryan and pressed his lips firmly against his forehead. It felt right, felt like something a father would do when his son was sick or in need. And he wanted Ryan to know that was how Sandy saw himself. As his father. As someone he could trust completely and who loved him unconditionally.

"I love you, kiddo," Sandy whispered, pulling back and sitting in the chair. He cleared his throat and sat back, making himself comfortable. "Now, don't judge me on this. I haven't sung in Hebrew in years and I sucked back then so this should be a real treat. If its too painful to listen to you'll just have to open up your eyes and tell me to shut-up."

Sandy sang. He knew he was butchering the entire song, but he didn't care. He just kept on singing. He sang when the nurses came in to change Ryan's I.V. bags. He sang when the doctor came in to check on him. He sang until he could see the sun's pale light peeking through the blinds in Ryan's room.

He was exhausted and his throat felt like he'd been gargling glass. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the chair, still singing.

If he hadn't closed his eyes he might have noticed the brief jump in brainwaves the machine in the corner was displaying. He might have seen the heart monitor pick up its pace for the briefest moment before settling back into its original rhythm.

If Sandy hadn't trailed off mid-verse, finally succumbing to sleep, he might have seen Ryan's hand clench, just once, before coming to rest once more on the bedsheets.


	8. Raise Your Hand If You're Guilty

**Author's Note: **_Another Sandy chapter for you to enjoy. PLEASE REVIEW!_

"So, let me see if I understand this correctly," Sergeant Nick Grimes said to Sandy, staring at him from across his desk and fiddling with his turtle paperweight. "You want _me_ to give _you_ special permission to visit an inmate in my prison who is not a member of your family, has never met you before, and will most likely be less than thrilled by your visitation? Is that what I'm hearing, Sandy?"

"I know how it sounds," Sandy began.

"Do you?" Grimes asked, his eyebrows quirked.

"Yes," Sandy sighed, rubbing his face in exhaustion. "I know that this is a lot to ask of you, Nick. I know this puts you in an awkward position, but you know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

Sandy glanced up at his friend through his hands. He didn't like the pensive frown or the way the old man's eyebrows furrowed. He needed this to work. Ryan needed it to work. He'd promised the kid he would find out who had shot him and he was going to keep that promise, come hell or high water. There had been one too many promises broken in the Cohen household. Sandy would put a stop to it right now. He just had to convince the old man in front of him to say yes to his request. A job easier said than done.

Visiting Sergeant Nick Grimes was a crotchety man, full of what The Nana used to call piss and vinegar. He'd been an L.A. cop for thirty five years before he'd finally retired, but it seemed domestic life didn't suit him in the slightest. It wasn't long after his supposed retirement that Grimes had taken a job with the California Department of Correction and Rehabilitation and become a sergeant within the walls of the California Institution for Men. He was the visiting sergeant and anybody visiting a prisoner inside the penitentiary had to go through him first. Normally, visiting privileges were attained through a rigorous application process that included a background check and a signed form of consent from the prisoner. It could take weeks for the screening process to be complete and Sandy didn't have that kind of time. Besides, he highly doubted Trey Atwood would ever give his permission to be seen.

Luckily, for reasons Sandy had never understood, Grimes had taken a liking to him. Even though he was a democrat and not a member of the NRA. The two men were as different as could be, but they got a long well and Sandy knew that he could count on Grimes to help him out of a tight spot. Unless, of course, the favor went against the sergeant's strict moral code or abused his power in any way. Nick's general fondness had its limits and was a fine line to walk on the best of days. Unfortunately for Sandy, his request straddled that line like a Texas harlot would a mechanical bull.

"Listen," Sandy said. "I get that this is unorthodox, Nick, but—"

"Unorthodox," Grimes snorted. "Shit, son, this goes way beyond unorthodox. You're asking me to let you see a man who doesn't want to be seen. I could get into a lot of trouble for that, Sandy." He shook his head. "Why are you so desperate to talk to this prisoner? You aren't his lawyer. I know that because if you were we wouldn't be having this discussion. So, why?"

"My son," Sandy said softly. "I think Trey had something to do with why he's in a coma and I mean to find out."

"Shit," Grimes rumbled. "Seth's in the hospital? Jesus, Sandy, why didn't you say something when you came in?"

"Not Seth," Sandy said. "My other son. Ryan."

"Ryan?" Grimes said, scratching his head as if trying to remember. "Sandy, don't take this the wrong way, but I don't remember you having a son named Ryan. Maybe I'm finally going senile like Lucille always said I would, bless her soul, but—"

"Nick," Sandy said, smiling despite himself. "You aren't going senile, you old coot. We just haven't talked in a long time. A lot has happened."

"I blame you for that," Grimes told him, groaning as he got up from his chair. "I'm an old man now. I can't keep up with you baby boomers anymore so it's your job to come see me. Not the other way around."

"I'll try and do better," Sandy promised. "Scout's honor."

"Scouts? Scouts?" Nick grumbled. "What the hell do the scout's know, Sandy? Nothing but a bunch of pansy ass milk-drinkers."

"I was a scout once," Sandy told him, grinning.

"Bah," Nick grunted. "Explains your lady fingers, I suppose. How did you become a member of the scouts anyway? I thought you were one of those Eastern city boys. All tender meat and no gristle."

"A summer camp when I was a kid," Sandy said, shrugging. "We used to go up to Brookhaven State Park and learn how to be heathens."

Grimes was quiet and stared out his office window with all the intensity of a crow who'd just spotted the worm. Sandy knew his silence was a part of his process, a part of how he thought things over. Normally this particular trait was endearing to Sandy. Now it was just driving him crazy.

"I don't normally ask favors of you," Sandy told him breathlessly. "You know me, Nick. You've known me for a hell of a long time. When have I ever pushed the limit with you? When have I ever asked you for more than you could give?"

"You're making a pretty good go of it right now," Grimes said softly. The old man heaved a sigh and turned back to face Sandy with tired eyes. "I never thought in a million years I would get a long so well with a damned lawyer. Sandy, I like you, but I don't know if I can help you. All I can do is listen to what you have to say. I can't promise anything more than that."

"That's all I wanted," Sandy told him. "I swear if you don't like what I have to tell you I won't mention it again."

"Bull shit," Grimes snorted with an amused shake of his head. "I've seen you in court, my friend. A damned shark if I've ever seen one."

"What does that mean?" Sandy asked sharply, reminding himself that his emotions were raw and sensitive.

"It means," Grimes said pointedly. "That once you've tasted blood you don't let go. I can tell you no until I'm blue in the face and it wouldn't do a damn thing to weaken your resolve. That's one of the things I like about you, Sandy. Just…just not today, I'm afraid."

"This isn't about some case," Sandy told him desperately. "This isn't about how I look in a court room or anything else. This is about a kid who has been beaten down his whole life, Nick. This is about a young man that has so much to offer the world if only he had the chance to do it. Kirsten and I, we're trying to give him that chance."

"Ryan," Nick said slowly. "This is the kid you're talking about? The one you call your son?"

"Nick, do you remember those stories you used to tell me? About the kids on the streets and how it broke your heart to not be able to grant them justice for what the world had done to them? Ryan was one of those kids. He breaks my heart almost every single day, Nick. He deserves justice. You can help give him that."

"Sly move, lawyer," Grimes grimaced, picking up his empty coffee mug and looking at it distastefully. "You've certainly got my attention." Picking up the coffee mug and coming to stand next to the coffee maker he glanced down at Sandy and sighed heavily as he filled his cup. "Go on. Tell me about him. I know you're dying to."

"It's a long story," Sandy warned him.

Grimes sat down heavily in his chair and took a long drag on his coffee, smacking his lips against the edge of the mug in pleasure. He set the mug on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and said, "Does it look like I've got somewhere to be?"

Sandy grinned then began his tale. Ryan's tale. He poured his heart out to Sergeant Nick Grimes in a way he'd only done once before when he'd asked Kirsten to marry him. He told the old man of their ups and downs, their awkward silences at dinner when nobody knew exactly what to say. He told him how Ryan had come to stay with them and the horrors he'd faced before his life in Newport. He explained how he felt about the boy from Chino, how he saw aspects of himself in Ryan and somehow felt closer to him because of it. He told Grimes how desperately he wanted to be like a father to his new son and how he felt he'd failed in that. He told of Ryan's relationship with Trey and how tight the noose was that Trey held around Ryan's neck. And he told him of their Thanksgiving, of the nightmare it had become, of seeing Ryan near death and being unable to do anything, of breaking down inside his hospital room. By the end, an hour had passed and Sandy was forced to wipe tears from his eyes before he could look at the sergeant.

"This is why it's so important," Sandy finished hoarsely. "This is why I _have_ to see Trey. I can't give Ryan his life back, but I can at least make sure the son of the bitch that did this to him is rotting in prison, Nick. He doesn't get to take Ryan's life away from him and think he still gets to live his free and easy."

Grimes stared at him from across his desk, his expression unreadable. Sandy fidgeted in his seat and bit down the urge to scream at the old man to hurry the hell up and give him an answer. He'd already been away from Ryan's side far too long and every minute spent in Nick's dingy little office was another minute Ryan could slip away from him. Forever.

When Kirsten had arrived the next morning to find her husband passed out in the chair, with Ryan's hand clasped in his, she'd ordered him to go home and sleep. He hadn't wanted to leave the kid, especially not to do something as ridiculous as sleep, but Kirsten had her death glare plastered to her face. Besides, Sandy knew that the body wasn't an immortal thing. He knew that better than ever now. If he was going to be there for Ryan's journey in the way he knew he would need to be, Sandy had to make sure to take care of himself along the way. So, despite his guilt and reluctance, he'd gone home and managed to sleep for a couple of hours. In his dreams he watched Ryan die over and over again, unable to help, frozen to the spot. When he'd finally jerked awake he had rushed to the bathroom and threw up a nights worth of coffee and No-Doz. It had come up harsh and acidic in his throat and Sandy was forced to his knees by the strength of his heaves. When he was done he'd lain his head against the cool tiles of his bathroom and cried, gripping the stones with his fingers as if he could anchor himself to them and stay afloat on the sea of emotions that threatened to drown him.

He'd called Kirsten the second he'd gotten control of himself for news on Ryan, but his wife had little to tell him. He was still waxy and gray. Still on the brink of death. Still comatose.

"I'm going to talk to Trey," he'd told her. "I'm going to get him to talk about what happened."

"Do you think that wise, Sandy?" Kirsten asked him. "Couldn't you get in trouble for that?"

"For what?" Sandy snapped. "For visiting an inmate? For giving the kid news on his comatose brother? Who is going to stop me, Kirsten? Who is going to question my motives?"

"Sandy," Kirsten sighed. "Maybe we should just let the police do their jobs. I think you might be too close to this. You aren't sounding like yourself."

"How am I supposed to sound?" Sandy had croaked. "Kirsten, tell me how I am supposed to fucking sound! Our son is dying, Kirsten! Dying! And the only two people who can tell me why aren't talking. What choice do I have? Marissa is a minor and I can't do anything with her. But Trey? I can talk to him, Kirsten! I can do something!"

"Sandy," Kirsten began, on the verge of tears. "I just—"

"Just let me _do something_," Sandy shouted. "I can't sit here any longer and not do anything. I can't do it, Kirsten. I'm sorry, but I just—I just can't."

"I understand," Kirsten whispered, her voice tinny and weak through the phone speaker. "Do what you need to, Sandy. Just…just be careful, okay?"

"Yeah," Sandy muttered, anger rushing from him as quickly as it had come. "Yeah, I will. I won't be long. I'll stay the night with him again. I like talking to him when it's quiet." He sighed and tried to dull the headache that was forming at the base of his temples with his fingers.

"I love you," Kirsten said softly.

"I love you to," Sandy said hoarsely. He went to hang up the phone, but thought better of it at the last second. "Kirsten?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't leave him alone," Sandy ordered her quietly. "Not even for a second."

"I wasn't planning on it, Sandy. I haven't left his side since you left."

"Good," Sandy grunted. "I'll call you when I'm done."

He'd flipped his phone shut without another word and pulled his suit from his closet. Suits were intimidating. Suits meant business. He unfolded the picture of Ryan from his wallet and studied it for a long moment. He'd taken a photo of his son in his hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and monitors, his flesh grey and lifeless. This was what he would show to Trey. It would be cruel, but it was what was needed. Guilt is more effective than any other interrogation technique if the suspect had it. And Trey had it. He had it in spades. Sandy just had to pull on it hard enough and make the man split wide open.

Grimes sighed, bringing Sandy back to the present. He stared at the old man expectantly, but was not encouraged by the expression on his face. Sandy could feel the anger and the guilt already beginning to tug at his belly, relentless in its quest to make him feel more pain than he already did. He couldn't fail in this. Failing in this was failing Ryan. Adding another broken promise to an already broken child.

"How sure are you?" Grimes asked. "How sure are you that Ryan's brother was involved in this?"

"100%," Sandy said immediately. "There is no doubt in my mind, Nick. Trey is involved in this somehow."

"Sandy," Grimes said gently. "I get that you love the kid and I get that you want to find the person who did it, but…but is it possible that you're reaching for straws on this one?"

"What?" Sandy said tonelessly.

"You have no proof," Grimes told him. "The fact that Ryan was talking to Trey before the shooting is suspicious, yes, but its not concrete evidence that he was involved." Sandy opened his mouth to retaliate, but Grimes held up his hand. "Just listen for a second, son. The kid was in Chino, Sandy. The place isn't fucking Sesame Street. People get hurt. Sometimes kids like Ryan. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"No," Sandy growled vehemently. "I know Trey asked him to do something for him. I know it, Nick. Marissa Cooper, the girl that was with him, told the cops that Ryan was bringing a car to someone in Chino."

"So Trey asks him to take a car to a friend and he gets shot a long the way," Nick told him. "Still nothing criminal, Sandy. Nothing that would convince me to break protocol and let you talk to him."

"Think," Sandy snarled. "Think for a second. I told you that Trey has some kind of hold on my son. A goddamn noose around Ryan's neck. For whatever reason, Ryan seems to think he owes his brother something. The man convinced the kid to steal a car with him, Nick. If he could guilt Ryan into that, who is to say he couldn't do it on something else?" Sandy swallowed and closed his eyes. "When we were talking on the phone in the bathroom he kept mentioning that he'd done something bad, something he felt sure we would hate him over. Why would he say something like that, Nick, unless there was a reason behind it? Unless Trey talked him into one last favor. I can just see Trey sending his little brother into the lion's den with no protection. I just need to talk to him so I can prove it."

"Then what?" Grimes asked Sandy mildly. "Say the brother does spill the beans and gives you a name. What do you plan to do with it?"

"What do you mean?" Sandy asked.

"Son," Grimes said gently. "I was cop for thirty five damn years. I've been through my fair share of murders, rapes, abductions, and assaults. And almost all of them have someone like you. A father, filled with grief and rage, and ready to do whatever it takes to bring down the person responsible for harming their loved ones. And they all had the same look in their eyes as you do now. It isn't the look of justice I see in you, Sandy. It's the look of revenge." Grimes took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I can't let you talk to this kid and then have you go off on some vigilante suicide mission. I can't do that to you. I can't do it to Kirsten. And I can't do it to Seth."

"I give you my word," Sandy told him solemnly. "I swear, Nick, I won't do anything stupid if only because I can't leave Ryan alone. I promised him that. Just like I promised I would find who hurt him."

"Look," Grimes said after a long, pregnant moment. "I can't make the kid talk to you, Sandy, but I can try and coax him into it. If he gives his permission than you ask him what you need to. If not…then I'm sorry old friend, but there isn't anything I can do."

"Thank you," Sandy told him. "You have no idea how much this means to me, Nick. If you ever need anything…anything at all…you just have to ask."

"It isn't a favor if there is a price to it," Grimes told him. "Like I said, I like you, Sandy. It's a rare man that comes along and is willing to offer a kid like Ryan a second chance. No matter how smart or kind or loveable he is. It's an even more rare man that loves the kid like his own. You want to do something for me? Keep your promise, Sandy. If Ryan wakes up you make sure you show him that the world isn't completely rotten, that there are good people and that he deserves better. And…if he doesn't wake up…show him anyways. Any way you can."

"I think I can manage that," Sandy said with a small smile.

Grimes heaved himself out of his chair and slipped his glasses over his crooked nose. Despite being 76, Nick Grimes was surprisingly fit and though he was small in stature he certainly was no push over. Sandy could never be entirely sure, but he could have sworn he'd seen muscle definition in the man's lean legs. As a cop he'd made more than a few grown men cry and it wouldn't have surprised Sandy in the slightest if he could still manage it now.

"You stay here," Grimes ordered Sandy. "I'll go see what I can do about getting Atwood to talk to you. If he see's you he might get spooked."

"What about you, old timer?" Sandy teased softly.

"Me?" Grimes asked innocently. "What did I do?"

"I've heard the stories," Sandy told him. "They say you used to be a real terror back in the day."

"Who says?"

"The guards," Sandy said.

"Bah," Grimes grunted. "A bunch of slack-jawed buffoons, the lot of them. They yap their mouths so much because they haven't got a brain to share between them." He turned and grinned at Sandy with nicotine yellow teeth. " Just don't tell them I said that."

"Your secret is safe," Sandy said softly. "How long do you think you'll be?"

"I don't know," Grimes said with a shrug. "Not long I hope. Why?"

"I was wondering if I could make a quick call."

"Sure," Nick said. "The phone is over there on the desk. I have one those old rotary telephones because these damned contraptions they make these days don't make a lick of sense to me. Just dial nine to make a phone call out."

"Thanks," Sandy told him, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his cell and the folded picture of Ryan. He put his hand on Nick's shoulder and pushed the photograph into the man's wrinkled hand. "Give this to Trey. I think he should see it."

Grimes studied Sandy's face for a moment then looked down at the picture in his hand. He unfolded it gently and stared at the photo for a long minute before folding it back up and placing it in the front pocket of his uniform.

"That's low," he told Sandy softly. "Making the kid look at that."

"Yeah," Sandy said. "But, sometimes you've got to be low to do what's right. This is partly Trey's fault and he's got to take responsibility at some point. If I have to guilt trip him into then so be it. I don't like it anymore than you do, but it has to be done."

"And if the brother is innocent?" Grimes asked. "What then, Sandy?"

"I already told you," Sandy replied stonily. "Trey Atwood isn't innocent in all this. He isn't a victim. The only person that's a victim in this whole mess is Ryan."

"Son, you're a smart man. A reasonable man. If Ryan did do a favor for Trey he wasn't forced into it. He wasn't threatened. He wasn't blackmailed. The kid had a choice, Sandy. He chose and he got hurt because of it, but he still had one."

"I don't think he did," Sandy replied sadly. "Not in his world, Nick. Something spooked him enough to take the risk of ruining everything he'd worked so hard for. Ryan wouldn't do that if there wasn't a reason and I will bet every penny I have that Trey _is_ that reason."

"Alright," Grimes said. "If you think this is the right thing to do then I'll trust your judgment. I'll give him the picture."

"Thank you," Sandy said, watching as the old man walked out his office door and into the cool, chrome hallway beyond. "I'll wait here."

Grimes nodded in acknowledgement then strode down the hallwayto the prisoner blocks. Sandy watched him go, his stomach a whirling mess inside him. As soon as Nick was out of sight, Sandy closed the office door and sat behind Nick's desk, picking up the rotary phone and dialing. He heard the phone ringing on the other end, followed by static as the receiver was picked up.

"Hello?" a soft voice said.

"Marissa," Sandy said softly. "I hoped it would be you."

"Mr. Cohen," Marissa said in surprise. "I really shouldn't be talking to you. My mother—"

"So, you're listening to your mother now?"

"No, it's just…I—"

"Ryan is in a coma," Sandy told her bluntly. "The doctor doesn't know if he'll wake up."

"Yeah," Marissa whispered. "I know. Summer told me. Or, you know, Seth told Summer and Summer told me."

"He's your boyfriend, Marissa."

"I know."

"So where the hell are you? Why aren't you telling the cops what happened?"

"Mr. Cohen, I—I wanted to, but…"

"But what? Your mother told you not to? When have you _ever _listened to Julie, Marissa? The past five months you've been doing practically everything you can to piss her off, but the _one_ time somebody actually _needs _you to give her the middle finger and you can't do it?"

"I tried," Marissa began. "I tried to tell them what happened, what I saw, but I couldn't, Mr. Cohen." The young woman was crying and Sandy felt his anger ebb away. "I couldn't live through it all again."

"That's too bad," Sandy said coolly. "Because Ryan is going to have to live through it for a long time, Marissa. And that's if he lives through it at all. He's been there for you, every moment you've needed him. Every time you get yourself into some kind of trouble Ryan is there taking the hit for you." Sandy shook his head sadly. "One might begin to wonder, Marissa, if you're any different from Ryan's family. Always taking, but never giving back."

"That's not true," Marissa cried. "Mr. Cohen, please, I want to help but—"

"I don't think you do," Sandy told her. "I think you want to pretend that none of this ever happened and that your world is the perfect dream it's always been. I used to have so much respect for you, Marissa. It's a shame you're becoming more and more like your mother every day."

"I don't—please, I just wanted—" Sandy hung up the phone.

He knew he was being cruel, knew he was taking out his anger and frustration on a girl that had little control over how she'd turned out. He knew it, but he didn't particularly care. He hadn't been planning on calling Marissa in the first place, but some strange need to confront her had filled him and before he really knew what was happening he was asking Grimes if he could use his phone.

Sandy leaned back in Nick's chair and groaned into his hands. His whole plan with Ryan was to make things less complicated for the kid…not more so. And now, not only was the kid comatose, not only had Sandy failed him in more ways than he could count, but he'd officially made things awkward with his girlfriend. Just add it to the fucking list.

Maybe Ryan would wake up and have no memory of Marissa Cooper. Maybe he wouldn't ever have to watch her drag Ryan down again. Sandy hated himself almost instantly. That was a horrible thought. Not the idea of Marissa being unable to have Ryan in her clutches again, of course, but the idea of Ryan not remembering. Not remembering…him? Seth? Kirsten?

Sandy had to put his head between his knees as the horror of that thought struck him. What would he do if Ryan woke and looked at him like he was a stranger? What would he say when he asked for his mother instead of him, for his brother instead of Seth? He wouldn't be able to handle the confusion and distress in Ryan's eyes, the distrust and caution he thought they'd finally surpassed.

Talking with Nick had kept his mind busy, his thoughts from slipping into a dark place, but now that the old man was gone and Sandy was alone once more, the demons began to lurk at the edges of his mind. He was so goddamn tired and all he wanted to do was sleep, hide away in the darkness until he could be sure there would be a pot of gold at the end of his rainbow. A happy ending to Ryan's story. But, he couldn't sleep. Not really. He could doze and recharge his battery, but it would never be peaceful. Never give him anything but nightmares. Not until Ryan was safe again. Not until his soulful eyes flickered open and recognized Sandy for who he desperately wanted to be. His friend, his protector, his father.

Sandy thought back to a night that seemed so long ago, but was only months before. They'd told Ryan of their plans to adopt him and the look on the kids face was something Sandy would never forget. That evening, Ryan had been laying out on one of the pool floats, staring at up the moon with almost enraptured intensity. The silver light had reflected off his eyes and Sandy had watched him smile for a long minute before he finally went out to join the newest member of their family for a late night swim.

"Care if I join you?" he'd asked the kid softly, watching as Ryan's eyes flickered over to him and followed Sandy's movements cautiously.

He wondered then if the kid even knew he was doing it. If he'd become so desensitized to having to watch his back that he wasn't aware of how he looked at people. Or, as equally disturbing, when he felt the need to submit to others. He'd done it to Sandy on more than one occasion, as well. Perhaps even more than simply following his movements. He wanted to tell the kid to stop, but he knew that his words wouldn't make a difference. The next time they spoke Ryan would still refuse to meet his gaze unless absolutely necessary and even then it would only be for a fraction of a second before they shifted downwards or away again. He simply had to prove that Ryan had nothing to fear from him. Something he knew would take time and effort. Sandy made it a point not to move too quickly and to respect the boundaries the kid had set for him. He had to remind himself to take this moment with Ryan slowly. If Ryan didn't want him here he wouldn't intrude.

"It's your pool," Ryan had told him with a small smile.

"It's yours to," Sandy said, sitting on the edge of the pool and dipping his feet in the water. "This is your home now, Ryan. What's ours is yours."

"Right," Ryan said softly. There was no sarcasm to his tone, no ungratefulness or disdain. It was clear to Sandy that the kid still didn't quite believe that they were serious.

"Kirsten wants to take you shopping," Sandy told him, kicking his feet and making ripples along the surface of the pool. "She's already made a whole list of things that she wants to get you."

"She doesn't need to do that," Ryan said, frowning. "You've already done so much that I can't even begin to repay—"

"Who said anything about repaying?" Sandy interrupted. "Kid, I told you. You're a part of our family. There is nothing to repay."

"I'll work around the house," Ryan said as if he hadn't heard Sandy. "I told Kirsten I worked construction for a summer. I'm pretty handy. I could do repairs or…or something. I can't live off of you forever, Sandy."

"You're seventeen," Sandy replied. "You should be out having fun. Not worrying about working around the house."

"I don't feel seventeen," Ryan whispered.

"No? How old do you feel? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty-five? God, what I wouldn't give to be twenty-five again."

"Old," Ryan said with the smallest hint of a smile. "That's how I feel sometimes."

"You don't have to feel that way anymore," Sandy replied, his heart breaking. "You know that, right?"

"I don't think it works that way, Mr. Cohen." He flicked water up into the silver light of the moon and watched it fall down again. "I read a book once about a man who was born old and aged backwards. I used to imagine that I would be like that, you know. Like I was born knowing that life sucks and fairytales don't happen, but I would forget all of that when I got older and be able to believe in magic like other kids do. Stupid, huh?"

"No," Sandy whispered. "That's not stupid, Ryan. There can be fairytales, you know. Dreams come true. You can make your dream come true if you have one."

"I already told you," Ryan said softly. "I stopped dreaming a long time ago."

"Then maybe it's time you started again, Ryan. What did you want more than anything when you were a kid?"

Ryan was quiet for a long time. Just when Sandy didn't think the kid would answer he swallowed visibly and said, "I used to want a lot of things. I wanted to be a _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle_ for years. My mo—" He had to stop and clear his throat. "My mom used to get so mad at me because I would walk around the house and karate chop anything I could lay my hands on."

"So what happened?" Sandy asked, grinning. "What stopped you from becoming a superhero?"

"I accidentally karate chopped the last of my dad's beer bottles off the porch," Ryan said with almost alarming calm. "I didn't do much karate chopping after that."

Sandy wanted to be sick at how collected the young man was as he talked about getting beat up. Nobody should be that calm. Nobody should be able to talk about something that horrible without any emotion at all.

"Right," Sandy said awkwardly. "Well, what else did you dream of doing when you were a kid?"

"Why are you asking me this, Mr. Cohen?"

"I'm just trying to make conversation, I guess. Find out who you are and what you want out of life."

"You know the funny thing about dreams?" Ryan said softly. "They always come with a price. They never tell you that, Mr. Cohen. They spend all day telling you to reach for the stars and that anything is possible if you believe in it hard enough, but its all lies, isn't it? They always forget to mention that you have to pay for your wishes…that nothing in this life comes for free."

"Ryan," Sandy began.

"I never believed in Santa Claus," Ryan told him. "Or the Easter Bunny or the tooth fairy. I told my friend Theresa that none of them were real when we were seven and I don't think she ever forgave me for that." Sandy watched him squeeze his hands into fists then release them before squeezing them tight again. "What did Seth dream about?"

"Summer mostly," Sandy said, pleased when Ryan laughed softly. "When he was six we finally took him to _Disneyland_. He'd wanted to go for so long, but when we got there he was too afraid to go on half of the rides and the other half made him sick. I think he got his picture taken with a bunch of the princesses though."

"You might have to show those to me," Ryan said with a small smile.

"You ever go?"

"Go where?"

"_Disneyland_."

"Just once," Ryan answered, looking away from Sandy and studying the ripples his feet were making intensely.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did you have fun?"

"Sure."

"Sure?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Kid, are you ever going to answer me with more than three syllables?"

"I'm a master at three syllable answers. Why throw out something I'm good at?"

"Have it your way then," Sandy laughed. "What was your favorite ride? That should only take a few syllables to answer."

"_Splash Mountain_ looked fun," Ryan said softly. "And that one…what was it called…the _Indiana Jones_ one…it looked neat."

"Looked? Did you actually go on any of these rides, Ryan?"

"No," Ryan whispered.

"Why not?" Sandy laughed nervously. "You were in _Disneyland_, kid. Did they make you sick?"

"No."

"Were you afraid?"

"No."

"Then…why?"

"I don't think I want to talk about _Disneyland_ anymore, Mr. Cohen."

"Ryan, you can talk to me, you know. I'm here for—"

"She got drunk," Ryan said suddenly. "My mom…she got drunk and she punched Donald Duck because she said he grabbed her. Only he turned out to be a she and she hadn't grabbed my mom, she'd stopped her from falling flat on her face. We got kicked out of the park…banned for life or something like that. Trey and I hadn't even gotten on any of the rides."

Sandy absorbed what he'd been told for a moment and then, "Your mom punched _Donald Duck_?"

"Yeah," Ryan snorted. "Its kind of funny when you say it out loud."

"Would you like to go?" Sandy asked who didn't really think it was funny at all.

"Where? _Disneyland_?"

"Yeah. We could take you."

"No offense," Ryan said, glancing over at Sandy and grinning. "But, I think I'm a little over the height limit for the teacups, don't you think?"

"Naw," Sandy said. "You can never be too tall for the teacups. They are made specifically so kids can watch their parents blow chunks and tease them about it for the rest of their lives." Sandy wanted to smack himself the second the words were out of his mouth. Ryan had probably been holding his mother's hair back since the time he could walk on two legs.

"Its certainly not something that's easy to forget," Ryan said softly.

"I'm sorry," Sandy groaned. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm making a real mess of this, aren't I?"

"It's fine," Ryan said, something Sandy had heard from him more times than he could count in the last few days. Then he paused. "Making a mess of what?"

"Getting you to trust me," Sandy said without thinking.

Ryan blinked up at him, startled for the first time since he'd met Sandy in juvenile detention. Sandy watched as he tried to arrange his face in a neutral expression, but he couldn't quite manage it and he could see the unease and the bewilderment in his eyes.

"What?" he said.

"You don't trust me," Sandy shrugged. The cat was already out of the bag. The least he could do was be honest with the kid.

"That's…that's not true," Ryan said weakly. "I trust you just fine, Mr. Cohen."

"Kid," Sandy told him with a gentle smile. "You trust me about as far you could throw me and that's okay. I didn't expect it to be any different. I was just trying to show you that you don't have to worry about me. I'm not going to hurt you."

Ryan's eyes went dark at his words and Sandy thanked God that he'd drifted from beneath the pool lights. If he had to see Ryan's expression he didn't know what he would have done. He could imagine it; hard and flat without warmth or feeling.

"I didn't think that you would," Ryan whispered finally.

"Ryan," Sandy said softly. "I see the way you look at me, you know. The way you flinch sometimes. I don't mean to notice, but I do. If you ever want to talk about it you can always talk to—"

"I think I'm going to go to bed now," Ryan said, rolling off of the float and splashing into the waist deep water.

"Ryan, just listen to me for a moment. I know that it would be hard, but sometimes getting things out in the open can really help and—"

"Stop it," Ryan warned him, moving towards the pool stairs so he could make good his escape. "I don't want to talk about this anymore, Mr. Cohen."

"I'm trying to help you, kid. I knew kids like you when I was young to. It's a horrible thing, but I can help you get through—"

"I said enough," Ryan snapped, getting out of the pool and angrily wrapping a towel around his shoulders. "I appreciate everything you have done for me, Sandy. I really do, but I can't talk about this with you. I won't."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Sandy told him, standing up as well. "Ryan, none of that was your—"

"Don't I?" Ryan said softly, tugging his shirt over his head.. "I have everything to be ashamed of, Sandy. I'm ashamed that my family is what it is. I'm ashamed that my mother can't go a day without drinking herself into a stupor. I'm ashamed that my father couldn't control his temper on the best of days and that he wound up in jail. I'm ashamed that my brother followed right along with him and that I—I almost did to. But, you know what's strange? I'm ashamed that I'm ashamed. They're my family, right? If I don't have them who have I got?"

"Me," Sandy told him. "You've got me, kid."

The look on his face had been something Sandy would never forget. It was the same wonder and hope Sandy had seen earlier when Ryan was told that he would be staying with them. He could still see the caution, the unease, but for the moment it was hidden. He'd hugged Ryan that night. It had been an awkward timid thing, but it had felt right. The kid hadn't responded that much, but Sandy hadn't really expected him to. The fact that Ryan had let him touch him at all was something of a miracle.

Even now, waiting in Nick's office, he could feel the phantom shadow of that first hug. It had opened a door for them. Ryan's smile had come easier and Kirsten often told him that Sandy was the only person that could make his adopted son beam, that could make him laugh out loud. He wasn't going to let Trey or anyone else ruin what they had, regardless of whether Ryan remembered him or not. If he didn't Sandy would just have to forge something new from the ashes.

Sandy looked up when the door clicked open and Grimes shuffled through the doorframe. He wouldn't look at Sandy and his heart sunk. Did the pictures not work? Was Trey really that selfish and heartless? What the hell was he supposed to do now?

"What did he say?" Sandy asked, getting up to meet the old man halfway. "What did he say, Nick?"

"He'll see you," Grimes told him grimly. "You have an hour, Sandy. That's it. And I will be watching you for every moment of it."

"You don't trust me?" Sandy bristled.

"It has nothing to do with that, son. I trust you plenty, but like I said…it isn't justice you're after, Sandy. Its revenge. Understandable in your position, but I'm not interested in understanding. I'm interested in the law and keeping good men like yourself out of trouble. So, I'll be watching when you talk to him. Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it," Sandy said quickly.

"I thought so," Grimes nodded. "I can't imagine it will be very hard to break him, anyways. That photo really tore him up, Sandy. You should have seen the look on his face. You were right. He's guilty of something."

"It did what it needed to then," Sandy said walking to the door. "I'm going to go ahead and talk to him now. I want to be back with Ryan as soon as possible."

"You keep your chin up," Grimes told him. "And, Sandy, don't forget that anger and stupidity often take the same back-roads."

"I won't," Sandy whispered once he closed the door. "But that doesn't mean I won't walk them."

When Sandy finally saw Trey for the first time the man wasn't what he'd expected. He hadn't imagined a thug exactly, but he certainly never would have pictured Ryan's brother as the slim young man that sat at a visiting table, his leg moving restlessly up and down.

He glanced up at Sandy and his eyes flinched downwards. The expression was so like his brother's that Sandy had to bite his lip to keep from tearing up. He couldn't lose his cool in front of Trey. Or in front of Grimes who he was sure was watching from his office. The wonders of modern technology.

It wasn't until Sandy sat down across from him that he saw the litany of bruises on Trey's face. He stared at them for a moment, but didn't say anything. He wanted to let the kid stew in his own juices so he stared at him without blinking. Trey got more and more agitated as time went on until he finally snapped.

"What the hell do you want from me?" he snarled. "I don't have anything to tell you, okay?"

"I don't believe that," Sandy told him.

"Yeah," Trey said sarcastically. "Well, who gives a shit what you believe, old man?"

"I think you do," Sandy said softly. "I think you know who hurt your brother, Trey. And I think you were the one who put him up to it."

"No," Trey said, voice cracking. "I just talked with him, okay? That was it. Whatever Ryan did he did on his own."

"Ryan could die," Sandy told him coldly. "Do you understand that, Trey? Did you know that his heart stopped three times? That he practically bled out on the operating table?"

"Stop," Trey whispered. "I don't want to hear this."

"Why not? You're his brother, aren't you? You should know these things. I'm only being honest with you."

"He's strong," Trey said softly. "He always has been. Stronger than any of us. I always knew he would be the one to make it out."

"He didn't," Sandy said harshly. "Not really. You saw to that."

"I had nothing to do with what happened to him," Trey cried. "I swear…I just…we just talked."

"What did you talk about?" Sandy asked him. "Did you talk about where you got those bruises, Trey?"

"No," Trey said quickly.

"You're telling me Ryan didn't ask about why his brother was beat up? You expect me to believe that he wasn't worried about you?"

"Yes. I mean…I mean, we did talk about it, but I just told him what happened. You know, I got into a fight, and…Christ, I swear we just talked." Trey put his face in his hands. "I swear. We just talked."

"Trey," Sandy said earnestly. "You can help catch the bastard that did this to him. All you have to do is tell me the truth."

"I am," Trey snarled. "Who the hell do you think you are, anyways? Coming in here acting like you actually give a shit about my brother?" Trey laughed bitterly. "What are you really helping for, old man? Huh? A tax break? To ease a guilty conscience? Or, maybe you just like boys to—"

Sandy probably would have hit him if he hadn't needed the kid. As it was he slammed his fists on the table, drawing the eyes of more than one inmate and the cautious gaze of multiple guards.

"You shut your mouth," Sandy hissed. "I love him like he's my son. He _is _my son. That is the only reason I am helping. And if you loved your brother at all you would cut the bullshit and tell me the truth."

"I'm sorry," Trey said, looking away from him. "I shouldn't have said that. I just…fuck, this wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen."

"Why was Ryan bringing a car to a guy in Chino, Trey? What did you ask him to do?"

"I can't," Trey whispered, furiously wiping tears from his cheeks. "I can't, okay? They'll kill me if I say a word."

"Like they tried to kill Ryan?" Sandy said softly. "Trey, if you had anything to do with what happened to Ryan his blood is on your hands. Do you understand that?"

"I can't," Trey repeated. "Please, Mr. Cohen. I can't say anything."

"Fine," Sandy said coldly. "I'll make sure to let Ryan know if he wakes up. I'll let him know that his brother was too chicken to do what was right. If he dies he'll die knowing that you were too much of a coward to stand up for him."

"I always stood up for him," Trey shouted. "Don't talk about shit you don't understand, old man. You can take Ryan in, you can buy him clothes and fancy cars, and pay for fancy colleges, but you'll never understand where he came from. Who he is and why. You don't know anything about anything."

"You're wrong," Sandy told him quietly. "I've been in trouble before, kid. I was a lot like Ryan when I was younger, but I didn't have the courage your brother has. I didn't face the pain he has and I wish I could change that. But, I can't. The only thing I can do is make sure that whoever is making Ryan's life a living hell doesn't get away with it. You can do the right thing, Trey. Do what's right for Ryan. Just once."

"You should go now," Trey said quietly. "Just…just leave, Mr. Cohen. Let me know how my brother is doing."

"When he dies," Sandy told him. "Then you'll know."

"And if he doesn't?"

"When he finds out how you betrayed him I don't think he'll be very interested in seeing you, do you? The brother he practically killed himself for won't even help catch his killer."

"You can't keep him from me," Trey said boldly, but Sandy could see the guilt and the pain in his eyes.

"No, but I don't think I'll have to. I think you are doing that all on your own."

Sandy got up from the table and turned his back on the older Atwood. Slowly, and with deliberate steps, he made his way towards the exit. He bit his lip and prayed to whatever gods would hear him that his bluff would work. If it didn't there wouldn't be anything else he could do. He'd played his hand and—

"Wait," Trey called to him. "Christ, just hold on. I—I'll tell you what you want to know."

"Then spill," Sandy said, walking back to the table. "But, no bullshit, Trey. Just tell me what I need to know."

"None of this was supposed to happen," Trey told him earnestly. "I swear, Mr. Cohen. I never meant to ruin what he had going. He talked about you like you were some kind of god, you know. Sandy this and Sandy that. I swear he wasn't supposed to get hurt."

"What did you do?" Sandy asked quietly.

"I…I asked him to help me out," Trey said miserably. "Before we got busted for stealing that car I owed some people a lot of money."

"How much money?"

"You sound just like Ryan," Trey whispered. "Does it matter? A lot of money, okay? I was supposed to deliver that car we stole as payment, but we got busted and I couldn't pay up. There are some people in here that thought they should remind me of my debt."

"What did you ask him to do?" Sandy said, trying to control his anger.

"They would have killed me," Trey said. "If I didn't deliver the payment I would have been as good as dead. So, I set up a drop with a friend of mine. He had the car and—"

"You asked Ryan to take it to them," Sandy hissed. "What the hell were you thinking, Trey?"

"Christ," Trey sobbed. "I didn't know any of this was going to happen. IT wasn't supposed to go down like this. Ryan shouldn't have been in any danger, you know? I never would have sent him if I had known there would be trouble."

"Think about what you just said," Sandy snapped. "These men were willing to kill you in order to get payment, but you didn't think there would be trouble? He's seventeen, Trey! His life was finally beginning to go somewhere and you ruined it, do you understand that?"

"Of course I do," Trey rasped. "You don't think I've thought of that? That's what I've always done. Held him back when I should have been pushing him forwards. I needed him, Mr. Cohen. And now he's…" Trey put his head in his hands and sobbed. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

"Who was it?"

"I can't tell you that," Trey said hoarsely. "Please, don't make me tell you that."

"Who-Was-It?" Sandy growled.

"A guy named Munoz, all right? He owns a chop shop over on Ramona Avenue."

"What's his first name?" Sandy asked.

"I don't know," Trey answered. "I swear I don't know. He's always gone by Munoz."

"Trey, was this car stolen?"

"Yes."

"Did Ryan know?"

"No," Trey said quietly, but Sandy could see the truth in his eyes. Ryan had known. Ryan had known and had been convinced Sandy would hate him for it.

"You've done the right thing," Sandy told him. "We'll make sure you're protected in here."

"Right," Trey snorted. "Good luck with that."

"Trey, I—"

"Does my mom know?" Trey interrupted, wiping his eyes.

"No," Sandy said softly. "We don't know where Dawn is or even where to start looking."

"Yeah," Trey whispered. "That sounds like mom."

"Trey," Sandy said. "You'll repeat what you said to me to the police, right? You'll go on record? I can try and keep your prison time the same if you do."

"I don't have much of a choice now, do I?" Trey asked. "I'm sure you've got it all on tape or something anyways."

Sandy didn't, but he wasn't about to admit that to the kid. Instead he kept his mouth shut and let Trey draw his own conclusions.

"Send them over," Trey said tiredly. "I'll tell them what I need to." Sandy went to get up, but Trey stopped him with a hand on the wrist. "You'll tell me? You'll let me know if Ryan is okay?"

"I'll tell you," Sandy said.

"Tell him not to come see me anymore," Trey whispered. "Tell him I love him but he has to start living his life without me being his shadow. You'll tell him that?"

"I'll let him know."

"And…and tell him I'm sorry," Trey said, tears falling down his cheeks. "Tell him I'm so, so sorry."

"I will. You did right by him, Trey. I'll make sure he knows that."

Sandy turned away and was half way to the exit before he heard Trey call to him again. He turned and found the young man walking towards him. One of the guards took a warning step forward, but Sandy held out his hand.

"Make sure," Trey said, his eyes blazing. "Make sure they understand that Ryan _didn't _know the car was stolen. You'll make sure they know? Ryan didn't do anything wrong. I played him."

"Don't worry," Sandy told him. "I won't let anyone try and take him away from us. I can't promise you much, but I can promise you that."

"And Mr. Cohen?" Trey said quietly. "You'll make sure they catch the son of a bitch that shot him?"

"Dead or alive," Sandy said grimly.

Sandy was surprised to find, as he walked away, that he meant it. They would catch him and he didn't much care if he was alive or dead when they did.

For the hundredth time that day Sandy felt sick. Only this time it wasn't because of Ryan. This time it was because of himself.


	9. We Stand Alone Together

**Author's Note: **_Okkkaaaay, when I started this chapter I had no intention of making it THIS long. I am quite shocked at how long it turned out to be. Almost 4,000 words longer than normal…and I don't write short chapters in the first place. However, there is a HUGE Sandy and Ryan flashback in this chapter. I think I'm going to make most of the rest of the story from Sandy's point of view. And, of course, Ryan if he manages to get his wits about him. Not promising that he will. Anyways, hope you enjoy and PLEASE REVIEW!_

The forty-five minute drive from Chino to the hospital in Newport was a difficult one for Sandy Cohen. He felt like he'd abandoned Ryan's side for far too long and even though the task he'd set out to accomplish was an important one, it wasn't nearly as important as the kid was. Yet, he knew that he'd needed to talk to Trey, needed to do something more than sit by Ryan's side and watch his whole world collapse. And he'd done it. He'd proven he wasn't entirely worthless in this situation and now it was time to return to his son.

As Sandy turned right into the hospital parking lot his phone began to vibrate in his jeans pocket. Thinking it might be Kirsten with news on Ryan he hastily attempted to pull the phone up from the depths of his jeans, nearly bashing into somebody's sports car when his foot slipped onto the gas pedal instead of the brake. He finally managed to wrestle the offending item from his pocket and he flipped it open, pulling into a vacant stall at the same time.

"Hello?"

"Sandy?" a cool female voice said. "It's Jessica."

"Shit," Sandy swore.

"Not exactly the first word I would recommend using in front of your son's social worker."

"Jessica," Sandy said flatly. "I wasn't aware you would be calling."

Sandy cursed himself. He should have seen this coming, should have realized that Ryan's condition wouldn't be kept secret for long. The state of California had a six month rule before adoptions were finalized and concrete. Within those six months a social worker assigned to Ryan's case could stop by whenever and wherever she pleased to make sure that Ryan was adjusting properly to his new life. If Jessica King decided that the Cohen's weren't a good fit for the kid he would be taken away from them…as quick as that. They had been so close to the end of their probationary period. Ryan was doing well in school and aside from a few small instances was adjusting incredibly well to his new family. Sandy had never expected anything different from the kid. He wanted this chance more than anyone and would fight with everything he had to see it through.

One month. They had one more month to go before Kirsten and Sandy could officially call Ryan a member of the Cohen family. One more month until his past with the Atwood clan could be scrubbed clean and he could start to trust again, to dream again. They had dutifully gone to the post-adoption meetings, given Jessica Ryan's school records, and made sure the social worker understand that Ryan was no trouble. But now, with Ryan comatose in a hospital bed from a gunshot wound, all of their efforts would be for nothing. Jessica King was more than capable of deeming them unfit to be Ryan's guardians and take him away from them.

"Really?" Jessica asked briskly. "You didn't think I would call after I discover one of my kids has been shot? That he may have been involved in criminal activity despite being on probation? No, you're absolutely right, Sandy. There was no reason for you to expect a phone call from me."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you," Sandy said. "You're far too pretty for that, Jessica."

"Please," Jessica snorted. "Don't flatter me, Sandy. We need to talk."

"Aren't we doing that right now?"

"Sandy," Jessica said, her tone changing. "Don't do this to me. I pulled a lot of strings to put this adoption through for you on account of you being an old colleague. But, you and I both know that I had reservations from the beginning and now this happens. What am I supposed to do here?"

"The situation is under control," Sandy told her coldly.

"Under control?" Jessica asked incredulously. "Listen to yourself. How is any of this under control? When has Ryan ever been under anybody's control?"

"You don't know him," Sandy snapped. "He's my son, Jessica. You aren't taking him from me."

"I don't want to," Jessica sighed. "But, I can't just ignore what is going on here, Sandy. Surely you can respect that. My responsibility isn't making you happy. It's making sure the kid is in a safe and stable environment."

"He's safe," Sandy growled.

"Really?" Jessica asked softly. "Because the last time I checked being comatose in a hospital bed isn't safe, Sandy. It's halfway to dead."

"Don't you fucking talk about that," Sandy snarled as he strode into the hospital lobby, drawing several long looks from the waiting patients inside. "He isn't going to die, Jessica. He'll be back to new in no time and he'll tell you what he wants. He'll tell you that he wants to stay with us."

"Unfortunately what Ryan wants is only a small part of the equation," Jessica said. "It's what Ryan _needs_ that I worry about. And what he needs is someone who can take care of him."

"I can take care of him, Jessica."

"That remains to be seen."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means we need to talk," Jessica sighed. "About this whole situation and what we're going to do about this mess. Because it _is_ a mess, Sandy. Make no mistake about that."

"Accidents happen," Sandy said flatly. "There isn't anything more to it than that."

"Except there is," Jessica said. "You and I both know that. The question is whether or not Ryan was involved in anything illegal."

"He wasn't," Sandy said immediately, pressing the call button on the hospital elevator.

"You can't know that, Sandy."

"I _do _know it," Sandy snapped. "And I have someone who can vouch for him."

"Who?" Jessica asked, surprised.

"Trey," Sandy told her.

"The brother?" Jessica gasped. "How the hell was he involved?"

"Ryan went to see him," Sandy explained quietly. "In prison. He called and—"

"Stop," Jessica told him. "Just stop there, Sandy. What were you thinking? What made you think that letting a sixteen-year old kid visit his manipulative brother in prison was a good idea?"

"I didn't think," Sandy said quietly, looking up as the elevator doors dinged open and stepping into the empty hallway.

"Obviously," Jessica sighed. "So, Ryan went to visit Trey in prison and what…just magically got shot?"

"Trey was in trouble," Sandy said quietly. "He owed some people money and he—"

"He asked Ryan to fix the problem for him," Jessica spat.

"Yeah."

"Shit! This is bad, Sandy."

"I know, Jess. I know you are looking out for Ryan, but so am I. I may have made a mistake, but he's still my kid."

"You can't afford mistakes with someone like Ryan, Sandy."

"What does that mean?" Sandy snapped.

"You know what it means," Jessica replied. "You've been in this game a lot longer than I have. Ryan has a record. He's on probation for hell's sake. He—"

"He's a good kid, Jess. A great kid. Don't even think about—"

"I know," Jessica snapped. "Christ, Sandy, stop biting my head off. I'm trying to help you here. You have to understand that Ryan's background puts him in the spotlight. It doesn't matter that you and I know he's a great kid. What matters is what the courts can see and right now that's a criminally involved teenager with mommy and daddy issues out the yingyang lying in a hospital bed with a suspicious gunshot wound. His mother abandoned him, Sandy. Regardless of how well Ryan seems to be handling it that sort of thing screws people up. The courts are going to be wondering if you and Kirsten are capable of handling emotional baggage like that."

"And if they think we aren't?" Sandy said listlessly.

"Then they will find someone who is," Jessica told him gently. "Sandy, listen to me. I like Ryan and he has a lot of potential. The kid has had it rough and he's put his trust in you. Anybody could see that. I want to give him the best possible shot in this, but I won't lie for you."

"I wasn't asking you to," Sandy whispered to her as he entered the ICU lobby. "We'll do what we have to, Jess, but nobody is taking my kid away from me. Not now. Not ever."

"I'm afraid that isn't your choice, Sandy."

"Maybe not," Sandy told her quietly. "But you know that I will fight tooth and nail for him, Jess. He _belongs_ with my family. He belongs with _me. _You understand?"

"I understand," Jessica said sympathetically. "I've always understood. That doesn't change anything. I have to look out for Ryan's best interests. Not yours."

"What are you saying?" Sandy asked hoarsely. "That you are going to recommend the courts find a different foster family for him?"

"No," Jessica sighed. "Not yet anyways. I know you are a good father and I'll make sure the courts recognize that. I'll paint you in the best light I can, but at the end of the day it isn't about how good of a father you are or how much you love him, Sandy. It's about why Ryan's life is now in danger. It's about whether or not a judge finds you capable of handling his needs. Especially now that those needs have involved into something much larger than before. How are you planning on taking care of him, Sandy? He isn't just going to pop up out of bed one day and be fine. This sort of thing takes effort."

"We have money," Sandy said coldly. "That isn't an issue."

"You're right," Jessica told him. "It isn't an issue. What is an issue is how you and Kirsten are going to manage your schedules. You both work. One of you is going to have to quit your job in order to take care of Ryan and depending how damaged his mind is if and when he comes out of this you could be taking care of him for a long time. Are you prepared to give that much time up? Is Kirsten?"

"Absolutely," Sandy said without hesitation. "Whatever it takes, Jess. We'll do it."

"And if he doesn't wake up?" Jess asked him softly. "If he remains in a coma and becomes brain dead? What then?"

"Why are you doing this?" Sandy asked, his voice cracking. "Why won't you just leave it alone?"

"Because you have to understand that this _is happening_, Sandy. Whether you are prepared for it or not. The courts will be making a decision regarding Ryan's well being and you have to know that it might not be in your favor. And you have to be prepared for all outcomes of this, you know? A young teen that's smart, healthy, and willing is already a challenge. Are you ready for what happens when days pass into weeks and he still hasn't woken up? Are you willing to do what needs to be done when he opens his eyes and remembers nothing about you? Or can't walk? Can't talk? That's a lot of responsibility and once it's yours you can't give it back."

"I don't want to," Sandy told her. "I will do whatever needs to be done. And so will Kirsten. You have my word on that, Jess."

"And your word means a lot to me," Jessica told him. "But it doesn't mean shit to the courts, Sandy. I know that's hard to hear, but it's true. I am going to see if I can get Jack Reynolds to be the judge on Ryan's case, but the man is busy and I can't give you any promises."

"Jack's a good man," Sandy said. "He knows me from court pretty well. He'd be fair."

"I know," Jessica said. "That's why I'm doing it."

"Jess," Sandy whispered, putting his head in his hands. "What the hell am I supposed to do? I'm floundering here. I was on the edge before this, but now—" He stifled a sob. "Jesus, I can't lose him. I can't."

"Sandy," Jess said gently. "I am going to help you to the best of my ability. I promise you that. This isn't something that is going to happen all at once. You have time, but you need to be thinking about it while Ryan recovers because it isn't going to go away. Right now, all you can do is keep doing what you have been. Be with your family. Take care of Ryan. Be his strength, Sandy. You've always been good at that."

"Sure," Sandy whispered, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

"It's true," Jessica told him. "If anyone has a chance of beating this thing it will be you and Ryan, but you have to promise you won't do anything stupid. Going vigilante will sweep any leg you have to stand on right out from under you."

"Everyone keeps saying that to me," Sandy snorted. "Do I sound that cracked? That desperate?"

"You sound wrecked, Sandy, but you still have fight in you. I just want to make sure you use it for the right reasons. You promise you won't go Bronx mobster on me and find the guy who did this just so you can send him swimming with the fishes?"

"I promise I won't send him swimming with the fishes," Sandy said with a sad smile. "But I can't promise I won't cement his feet together and drop him down the nearest well."

"Sandy—"

"I'm kidding," Sandy said quickly. "I promise."

"Good," Jessica said. "Keep me informed of everything, alright? It doesn't matter if it seems like a small development to you…just call me."

"You've got it, boss."

"I'll be in touch about when we'll need to meet up to discuss Ryan's case."

"Okay."

"And Sandy?"

"Yeah?"

"You hang in there."

"Thanks Jess."

Sandy flipped his phone shut and stood, making his way towards the ICU desk. He checked in with the head nurse and she opened the doors for him, politely reminding him that visitors would be limited to no more than two at a time. He didn't bother telling her that Seth wasn't with them. Kirsten had sent him off with Summer hours ago and despite her son's pleading wouldn't let him come back in until visiting hours the next morning.

He made his way down the hall, listening to the quiet beeps and blips of the various machines that notoriously belonged to the ICU. It was a somber place, to be sure, but Sandy thought it was more because of the stigma of the place rather than the ICU itself. All in all, it looked like an ordinary hospital hallway with ordinary hospital rooms. Ordinary nurses and ordinary doctors. Ordinary whitewashed tile and ordinary overly bright ceiling lights. The only difference was the quantity and size of the medical instruments.

Still, Sandy wished more than anything that Ryan was in a regular hospital room. That the beep and blips would be coming from a _Gameboy_ instead of a heart monitor. That the Darth Vader sound of his ventilator was his boys watching _Star Wars_ on the old portable DVD player Seth had. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine it. Could almost see—

Sandy frowned and opened his eyes as he turned down the hallway to Ryan's room. There was music playing somewhere in the ICU, entirely too loud for such a quiet place, and Sandy immediately wished they would turn it off. The tune was too cheery for his tastes, too vibrant in a place that was made for those at the edge of death. Of course, he realized with some chagrin, that could be the point.

It wasn't until he reached Ryan's room that he realized the music was coming from inside. Sandy's eyebrows pulled down and he opened the door, mouth already halfway open to demand Kirsten turn it off. What the hell was she thinking? Playing music in the ICU? Who did that?

His wife looked up at him when he walked in and smiled tiredly. He studied the bags beneath her eyes and wondered if his looked as bad as hers did. He guessed that they probably did, but there was nothing either of them could do. Sleep wasn't exactly an option for them at the moment. Not with Ryan on the verge of the eternal abyss.

Sandy moved close to Ryan's bed and studied the young man's peaceful form. It seemed like such an innocent thing, this false sleep Ryan was stuck in. Some color had returned to his cheeks, not much, but Sandy would take any improvements he could get. When Sandy took his hand the kid's fingers were warm and Sandy smiled. Last night they had been freezing and tinged with blue. Today they were flushed and relatively healthy looking. Definitely an improvement.

Kirsten got up from her chair at Ryan's bedside, stretched, and turned off the CD player sitting precariously on a ledge in the corner. Sandy greeted her, kissing her and pulling her close, reveling in the comfort she offered him. Glancing over his shoulder he found three large grocery bags filled with movies, CDs, candles, a few Tupperware containers filled with some kind of food, and one of Ryan's shirts.

"What's all this?" Sandy asked, releasing his wife. "The music, the movies, the Tupperware containers? Are we moving in?"

"No," Kirsten told him. "They're for Ryan."

"What?"

"Last night I couldn't sleep so I did some research on Ryan's condition," Kirsten explained to him. "The internet was full of useful tips and hints, Sandy."

"Like bringing containers of food to a kid who can't eat it?" Sandy asked dryly.

"Don't be such a critic," Kirsten snapped at him. "I read last night that just because Ryan can't respond to the world around him doesn't mean he can't be involved in it. It's all about senses, Sandy. Using senses to help stimulate his brain."

"I don't follow," Sandy said, looking down at the grocery bags skeptically.

"Listening to music or movies can act like a link to the outside world, Sandy. Same as smells and sense of touch. We can use these things to help Ryan come back to himself…to let him know we're there and offer him comfort." Her face fell and she looked away in shame. "The website said the best items to use were things that meant something to him. Ryan's favorites, you know? And—and I realized last night that I didn't know. I didn't know any of it. What was his favorite band? No idea. His favorite movie? Don't know. His favorite food? Not a damn clue. What kind of mother am I, Sandy, that I don't know a thing about my kid?"

"Ryan's a private person," Sandy told her soothingly. "He kept things to himself. Even little things like that."

"But I should have asked," Kirsten whispered harshly. "If I had asked him he would have answered. He always does, but I didn't."

Sandy wanted to tell his wife that she was being too hard on herself, but he couldn't deny the truth of her words. Ryan would have answered if she had asked because that was how Ryan worked. The kid didn't believe that anybody really wanted to know anything about him so he kept his mouth shut unless he was asked. While most kids couldn't wait for a reason to talk about themselves Ryan preferred to remain a mystery. Not because he thought he was too good for them, but because he thought he wasn't. Sandy had realized that during one of their first outings together.

Ryan had been living with them for a week and the kid seemed to be pulled in every direction. Kirsten wanted him to go shopping with her so she could buy him some clothes for school. Seth demanded that he set aside so many hours in his day to go sailing and play video games. Marissa Cooper wanted to use him to taunt and torture Luke, all while pulling on Ryan's hear strings. Summer wanted to "jump his bones", her words not Sandy's and all the women of Newport wanted to catch a glimpse of Sandy's "charity case." Ryan handled all their requests with the patience of a saint, but Sandy could see that he was beginning to become overwhelmed by it all.

Sandy had come home one night to find Ryan and his wife in the pool house. There were clothing bags scattered all over the place and Ryan was posing for Kirsten, who hmmmd and hummmmd while Ryan tapped his fingers against his thighs nervously. His expression was patient and unhurried, but as Sandy came through the door the kid looked up and shot him a frantic, pleading glance. Sandy had to stifle a laugh and he walked over to his son, clapping him on the back in commiseration.

"Well," he'd said with a sunny smile. "Don't you look handsome?"

Ryan raised his eyebrows at him and put his hands in his pockets. Sandy wondered how long he'd been stuck here playing fashion show with Kirsten. From the amount of clothes spread out on the floor it had been awhile and Sandy felt a flash of pity for the kid.

"Sandy," Kirsten said, wrinkling her nose as she studied Ryan. "Do you think that shirt washes out his skin tone? He's got such pretty skin and I want him to look his best when school starts."

Ryan grimaced when the words ''pretty skin'' came out of his wife's mouth and Sandy smirked. He put a hand around Ryan's shoulder, nearly laughing out loud when the kid looked up at him with frantic eyes.

"What I think is that you two need a break," Sandy told her. "From the state of this room you've been at this for hours. Let him breathe a little, Kirsten."

"I'm only trying to help," Kirsten pouted. "And Ryan said he didn't mind. He said he was having a good time."

"Yeah," Ryan said with a small smile. "Three hours ago…"

Sandy laughed and Ryan looked at him in relief. For a moment Sandy was thrown by the expression, but then he realized that the kid had been afraid he'd overstepped his bounds. Kirsten's lips quirked into an un-amused frown and Ryan's grin faded almost as suddenly as it had appeared.

"Sorry," he said quietly, looking to the floor again. "I didn't mean to…sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Sandy said easily shooting a warning glare at his wife. "It was funny, kid. My wife just forgot how to laugh."

Ryan smiled at him, but it fell far quicker than Sandy liked. The kid had been through a lot that week and, as far as he knew, he hadn't said a word to anybody about how he was coping with it all. Sandy wanted to talk to him, really _talk_, but to do so he would have to get him away from Kirsten and Seth for longer than five minutes at a time. It took Ryan far more time to open up than it did Seth and Sandy knew he would have to proceed with caution, just as he had that night in the pool.

"Ryan," Sandy said. "We're running low on groceries. I was going to go to the store and I would love it if you would come along to keep me from binge buying."

"But," Kirsten began, but quieted when Sandy shot her a look.

"Sure," Ryan told him with a small shrug of his shoulders. "That sounds great, Mr. Cohen."

"Ryan," Sandy admonished gently. "You don't need to call me Mr. Cohen. We've talked about that."

"Sorry," Ryan said.

"And you don't need to say you're sorry," Kirsten told him with a small smile. "You two go and have fun. I'll keep Seth busy while you're gone."

"Right," Sandy grinned. "Fun…at the grocery store…"

"I used to have a lot of fun at grocery stores," Ryan said. "Back when I was a kid we used to—" He trailed off with a frown and glanced up at his new parents nervously. "Used to hang out in front of the sno-cone shacks right outside."

Whatever his story had been it certainly had nothing to do with sno-cone shacks. When he'd began his tale there had been a shine to his eyes. He was going to share one of the few happy moments from his life before, but for whatever reason, decided to keep it to himself. Whatever spell had been lifted from him settled back down on his shoulders and Ryan refused to meet his gaze once more.

"I can't promise sno-cones," Sandy said, steering Ryan towards the door. "But, I can offer you an entertaining commentary on the creation of various food articles. I personally guarantee that you'll never eat hummus the same way again."

Ryan grinned at him as he walked through the house to the driveway. Kirsten cornered Seth in the kitchen as they slipped out of the house and soon they were pulling down the street. Ryan liked to study the houses as they drove past and Sandy wondered what he was looking at. Somehow he didn't think the kid was all that interested in the price, but was riveted by the structures themselves. He'd told Kirsten that he'd wanted to be an architect once and it always amazed Sandy to watch him take a structure apart with his eyes so he could put it back together again in his mind.

Of course, the fact that Ryan used his intense study as a way to justify his silence was not lost on Sandy, but he chose to ignore it. Ryan could be social if he wanted to and if the right circumstances presented themselves. It was just a matter of forcing those circumstances to appear.

The grocery store loomed before them, but Sandy didn't turn into the parking lot. He tilted his rearview mirror so he could see Ryan's face without looking over at him and he grinned when the kid frowned, turning in his seat to look at the quickly disappearing_ Trader Joes_.

"Ummm," he said. "Mr. Co—Sandy, I think you passed it."

"I know," Sandy told him cryptically.

"Aren't you going to turn around?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because we aren't going to the grocery store," Sandy told him, watching Ryan's expression in the mirror. The kid was frowning uneasily, but Sandy wasn't sure why.

"Where are we going then?" Ryan asked.

"I want to show you something," Sandy explained, finally glancing over at his son.

"Show me something?"

"Yep. You'll like it."

"Sure."

"Ryan," Sandy said softly. "You need to stop that, kid."

"Stop what?" Ryan asked in alarm.

"Stop agreeing to everything we say," Sandy said. "You're not a prisoner in our house, you know. You can make decisions. Your vote matters."

"I know," Ryan replied softly.

"Do you?"

"If I didn't before then I do now," Ryan said with a half-hearted grin.

Sandy turned towards the beach and had to squint against the harsh California sunset. He lowered his sun visor and watched as Ryan did the same. The kid leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, soaking in the rays of the sun. He looked peaceful, more at ease than Sandy had ever seen him, and he knew the time was right to try and get him to open up.

"How've you been holding up?" Sandy asked him. "It's been a busy week for you."

"Good," Ryan said, keeping his eyes closed. "More than good."

Sandy knew that he was only telling him what he wanted to hear, but he didn't press. Talking to Ryan was an art form and Sandy was becoming a regular Picasso.

"Good," he mused. "That's a promising answer, I suppose. Has Seth fried your brain with all his video games yet?"

"No," Ryan laughed. "He keeps kicking my ass at _Mortal Kombat_, but I devastate him in _Street Fighter. _Kind of fitting, I guess."

"How so?"

"Well," Ryan said slowly. "Seth is more the nerdy martial arts guy and I'm…" He frowned.

"And you're…?"

"I'm the street fighter, Sandy. It isn't very hard to see why."

"It isn't?"

"I don't think so."

"You've had a few fights," Sandy said with a shrug. "So what?"

"A few," Ryan snorted. "Sure."

"You've had more than a few?" Sandy asked, looking over at him slyly.

"I know what you're doing," Ryan sighed.

"What am I doing?"

"You're trying to bond with me or some bullshit like that."

"Bullshit?" Sandy asked, looking at the kid in surprise. He hadn't expected this particular line of conversation, but now that he'd started it he would have to see it through. "You don't want to bond?"

"I don't know," Ryan whispered, refusing to look at him.

"You don't know?"

"It's…hard to explain," Ryan told him.

"Try me, kid. We've danced this dance before and I'll repeat what I did then. I'm here to listen to you, Ryan, and help if I can."

Ryan stared at him from his seat. Sandy was fairly certain that if they hadn't been in a moving vehicle the kid would have booked it by now, but he had inertia on his side that day. Ryan turned to look out the window and Sandy thought he might have pushed it one step too far that time. Then, much to his surprise, Ryan began to talk, refusing to look anywhere but out the window, but talking all the same.

"People leave," Ryan told him quietly. "My whole life people have been leaving and they are always the ones that I actually want to stay. Those thugs my mom dated…they never left. They were always there and even though the faces and the names changed the men never really did. I hated them…all of them. Except one. Bobby."

"He was this guy from somewhere out south," Ryan continued. "He always talked with this real heavy accent. Trey and I thought it was funny, but he never got mad at us when we laughed. He was a mechanic, you know, and he made decent money. Not like Kirsten, but enough to live comfortably. He helped my mom get out of some of her debts and he took us places. He was nice to us and was good to mom. Trey and I made a pact that if he were to ever marry mom we wouldn't say a word about it. We were happy."

"What happened?" Sandy asked quietly.

"My mom," Ryan whispered. "She wouldn't stop drinking even though Bobby begged her to stop. He told her he would pay for her to go to rehab, but she told him to go to hell. She met this guy named Snake—"

"Snake?"

"Yeah," Ryan said, eyes growing dark in the reflection on the windshield. "He was…he was a really bad guy. He started coming over to our house all the time, you know, and my mom tried to hide what she was doing from us, from Bobby, but she's never been very good at subtle. Snake was a drug dealer. Not just marijuana, Trey and I were used to that, but he brought the hard stuff over. Cocaine, Meth, Heroin. My mom tried it all and she left it just lying around."

Ryan stopped and Sandy looked over at him, watching out of the corner of his eye as their destination loomed closer. The kid finally faced forward again, but Sandy almost wished he hadn't. His eyes were haunted, pained, and his fists were clenched tightly against his side as if he was controlling the urge to release his rage and hurt on the next person that came along…namely Sandy.

"Ryan," Sandy began. "You don't have to—"

"You asked," Ryan said, his voice harsh with emotion. "You asked me to trust you, Sandy, to talk to you and I'm-I'm trying, but—" He shook his head and Sandy was alarmed to see a few lonely tears drip down onto his shirt before Ryan wiped them away with an angry fist. "Just…let me try and tell you. I think I want to tell you."

"Okay," Sandy said softly, pulling the car into a vacant spot and parking.

"I was at home with Theresa, I mentioned her before," Ryan said, closing his eyes again. "Trey wasn't living at home anymore because mom kicked him out so it was just us. I think we were on the couch watching a movie on this old television Bobby had given us. Snake comes tearing through our door demanding to see my mom. He's drunk and high and pissed off so I tell Theresa to go home while I deal with him. She starts to get her stuff and I'm telling Snake that mom isn't home…she's out with Bobby." He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut even tighter.

"Theresa is on her way towards the door already calling her brother to have him come back me up if there is trouble, but when she tries to leave Snake stops her. I tell him to let her go, you know, get the hell out before I call the cops, but he says that my mom owes him for some blow he'd given to her. Owed him…favors. I told him I didn't care what she owed him…he needed to leave." Ryan shook his head slowly and Sandy hoped he never witnessed the kid's expression ever again. "But, he didn't. He pushed Theresa down and said that if mom wasn't home to pay him he would just have to take it from someone else. I managed to stop him from hurting her, but…" He swallowed. "I was in the hospital for a week after he got done with me. Trey said I looked like Wile E. Coyote after he'd gone a few rounds with Roadrunner. We made up some story about how a guy high on speed came through the door, tried to hurt Theresa, then kicked me around instead. It was pretty easy to make them believe us. Bobby came around a lot, but my mom only came once. We'd watch movies and stuff and I'd ask him about mom, but he always told me not to worry about her, not to worry about anything but getting better. Then…about four days into my stay…he stopped showing up. I thought maybe something had happened to him, you know, but Trey told me he'd split. Took a job somewhere in Austin. At first, I didn't believe him because I'd—I'd come to count on Bobby, but Trey gave me a note he'd left for me."

"Did he say why?" Sandy asked when Ryan went silent for a moment.

"Yeah," Ryan explained. "He said that he hadn't wanted to leave, hadn't wanted to abandon me in that shit storm, but he couldn't take my mom any longer. She said that I had provoked Snake somehow because he was really a very gentle guy and when Bobby argued with her about it she told him that if he came us again she would call the cops on him. So he split and he told me that if I ever needed a place to stay just call him up." He smiled bitterly. "Was this what you had in mind for bonding?"

"You've shared something with me," Sandy said, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "Something hard that you went through. That means a lot to me that you felt comfortable enough to tell me."

Ryan didn't answer him, but stared out the window at where they had stopped. It was a beach, like most other beaches in California, but this one was special to Sandy. This was the beach he'd first learned to surf on so many years earlier.

"You brought me to a beach," Ryan said, glancing over at him.

"Yep."

"You said you wanted to show me something."

"Yep."

"This is what you wanted to show me?"

"You would be correct."

"Why? It's a beach. I've seen beaches before."

"You haven't seen _this_ beach."

"What's so important about _this_ beach?" Ryan asked, the faintest of smiles on his lips.

"It's mine," Sandy said.

"Yours?"

"Well," Sandy amended. "I don't own it, but its where I learned to surf for the first time. I thought, if you were interested, I could teach you. Seth has the balance of a toddler, but you might do okay."

"Sandy," Ryan said after a brief pause. He looked pained and disappointed. "I'm not much of an ocean guy."

"What?"

"I don't like the ocean," Ryan sighed. "I mean, I like the beach okay and I don't mind being in a boat, but I'm not a fan of getting _in _it."

"Man," Sandy said. "Just when I think I've gotten a second chance at teaching my son to surf he ends up hating the ocean."

"Why did you call me that?" Ryan asked softly.

"Call you what?"

"Your son. You called me your son. Why?"

"Because that's what you are, kid. We adopted you, remember? You legally belong to the Cohen's now, God have mercy on your soul."

Ryan smiled slightly and Sandy leaned over and ruffled his hair affectionately. The kid didn't seem to know how to respond to the gesture and he rubbed the top of his head absently.

"So," Sandy said watching the waves hit the shoreline. "You don't like the beach. You like architecture. You enjoy reading. What else should I know about you, kid?"

"I don't know," Ryan shrugged. "Not much to know really."

"I don't believe that for a second," Sandy replied. "I believe you were holding out on me back at home." Ryan stared at him uncomprehendingly. "About the grocery store?"

"Oh," Ryan laughed. "That."

"Yeah. That. Spill."

"It's kind of bad," Ryan said softly. "Trey and I did something bad, I mean."

"Okay," Sandy grinned. "I'll start then."

"Start what?"

"Come on," Sandy told him. "You didn't really think we were going to the grocery store, did you?"

"Actually," Ryan replied. "Yeah, I did. Won't Kirsten notice if you don't come home with groceries?"

"She knows I'm not going," Sandy explained.

"How could she know that?" Ryan asked incredulously. "You never even told her."

"It's all in the eyes," Sandy told him seriously. "When you've been together as long as Kirsten and I have you don't need words anymore. You can just send messages with your eyes."

"Are you serious?"

"No," Sandy grinned, holding up his phone. "I sent her a text."

"Sneaky," Ryan laughed. "So, if we aren't going to the grocery store, what are we doing?"

"Talking."

"Talking? Couldn't we have done that at your house?"

"I could have talked, but you wouldn't have," Sandy answered, choosing to ignore Ryan's 'your house' comment for the moment. "Not with Seth around. He wouldn't have given you the chance."

"He talks a lot," Ryan said mildly.

"Yes, he does."

"I think he gets it from you."

"What? I think you're mistaken, Ryan. He gets it from Kirsten. She's the one walking around with a phone glued to her ear all the time."

"I didn't say it was a bad thing," Ryan told him.

"Well," Sandy sniffed. "In that case…"

Ryan grinned and shook his head.

"You've got a story to tell," Sandy told him after a moment's silence. "I'm dying here, kid. I've got to know about this grocery store thing that you think is so bad."

"You said you would go first," Ryan reminded him.

"I did," Sandy told him with a playful smile. "But then I realized how rude I was being. Besides, I already know my story. I want to know yours."

"I don't think it works that way, Sandy."

"No? Well, let's see if this works," Sandy said, pulling the keys from the ignition. "We don't leave this beach until you tell me your story."

"I'm hungry."

"Then you better get talking."

"That's cheating."

"Nope." Sandy grinned. "That's just good old fashioned lawyering."

"I know…that's what I said. Cheating."

"Clever," Sandy laughed. "Very clever. Now spill."

"Why are you so interested in this?"

"Because I want to get to know you better."

"I'm really not that interesting."

"Yes, you are. By the end of tonight I fully plan on getting you to tell me every interesting thing about yourself."

"That should take five minutes," Ryan deadpanned.

"Nope," Sandy told him with a firm shake of his head. "I think that the time it takes to eat burgers on the beach and watch the surfers do their thing until the sun goes down will allow us enough time to barely scratch the surface that is the mystery of Ryan Atwood."

"You're being serious," Ryan snorted. "You actually are trying to have a father son moment with me."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"I don't know yet."

"Because you think I'm going to leave you?"

"Everyone else has," Ryan said, shrugging his shoulders. "Why not you?"

"I'm not them," Sandy told him.

"No," Ryan said slowly. "I suppose you aren't, but…"

"But?"

"I haven't quite figured out your motives yet."

"I don't have any."

"Everyone has motives, Mr. Cohen. Just not all motives are bad."

"That's a fine line to walk, kid."

"Yes," Ryan agreed softly. "It is."

"Doesn't that ever tire you out?"

"Trey and I used to play a game," Ryan said instead of answering. "With some other boys in our neighborhood. We called it the Grocery Store Scavenger Hunt."

"You're telling me?"

"I'm hungry and somebody decided to play keep away with the car keys."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures. Go on. The sooner you tell me the sooner we can get burgers. And remember, kid, I'm a lawyer. I know when a story has holes and when it doesn't."

"I'm not going to lie to you," Ryan told him mildly, looking out at the sea. "You asked and I have no reason to lie."

"Go on then, kid. I'm listening."

"We're just going to sit in the car?"

"Is there somewhere else you want to go?"

"Not really, I guess. This is fine."

"We'll get burgers after you're done. Eat them on the beach. For the moment I'm just enjoying the scenery."

"Me to," Ryan said quietly. "I just—" He broke off and looked away from Sandy, embarrassed.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," Sandy said, repeating his words from earlier in the week.

"I'm not afraid," Ryan told him and there was a surprising amount of honesty in his words. "I just don't talk like this, you know?"

"Talking is good for you," Sandy told him. "If it really makes you that uncomfortable though consider this you're talking quota for the next month. You don't have to say another word if you don't want to. Just grunt and nod."

"That's not what I meant," Ryan said, an exasperated smile on his lips. "I only meant that I'm not used to talking because I never really had anyone to talk to, I guess. Nobody that would listen anyways."

"Well," Sandy said mildly. "I'm listening."

"So, Trey and I used to play this game," Ryan sighed, rolling his eyes. "Sometimes mom didn't always make enough money to buy groceries so we thought that stealing them would be better than starving. The logic doesn't make much sense now, but when we were kids—"

"It was the perfect solution," Sandy supplied, his smile easy.

"Yeah," Ryan said. "We were always scared we were going to get caught though so Theresa's brother comes up with this idea that we could make a game out of it. The rules were simple: we'd break into three teams, siblings usually, and we'd each have a list of groceries we would have to steal and the first to get them won. There were never any prizes, but bragging rights was almost as good as anything back then."

"Sounds like a good time," Sandy said. "You ever get caught?"

"We had a few close calls," Ryan answered, looking at him strangely. "Trey and I were pretty quick so we never had too much trouble, but sometimes we competed against one another a little too fiercely."

"What does that mean?"

"The ham debacle of 2000," Ryan said, smiling slightly at the memory. "Trey hung out with a lot of the older boys and wanted to prove to them he was a badass or something. So one day he decides to steal a bunch of stuff to show he wasn't afraid. He comes out with like seven boxes of _Hot Pockets._ I have no clue how he managed to get them out, but he did. The guys weren't really impressed, but I wanted to prove that I was cooler than my brother so I decide it was a good idea to steal something so large they had no choice but to declare me their leader. The fantasy of a Chino twelve-year old." He laughed and shook his head. "So, I go in to this store and I'm looking for something to snag, but nothing is big enough, nothing is _bad_ enough. Then I see the ham. It's one of those giant Thanksgiving ones, you know? The ones that are as big as your head and weigh the same as bowling ball."

"Tell me you didn't," Sandy said, smiling fiercely.

"I did," Ryan told him, his eyes brightening. "I walked up to that ham, picked it up, and started towards the front doors with it. For some odd reason I never thought about how the hell I was going to get a ham the size of a damn basketball out of the store without being seen. But, I did it. Even got helped out the door by an older gentleman who thought he was being nice, carried it all the way to our cart."

"Are you being serious?" Sandy laughed. "You just _walked _out?"

"Yep," Ryan replied, glad to see Sandy was amused. "Trey said it was because of my baby face." He rolled his eyes and grimaced. "He said nobody would think a kid that looked as innocent as I did would actually steal something. The other guys said the same thing, but the looks on their faces as the old man carried the ham out for me was priceless."

"You do have this look about you," Sandy told him with a small smile. "Not innocence. You've been through too much for that, but a certain trustworthiness that is hard to explain."

"Thanks," Ryan said. "I guess…"

"It's a compliment," Sandy laughed. "I promise. How long did you and Trey do this?"

"Until I was fourteen and Trey was sixteen," Ryan answered. "Old enough to get a job and start paying for what we needed. I still think he stole stuff though. I never asked him. I didn't really want to know, but I stopped." He grinned. "After the ham thing, Trey thought I had been stupid, foolish, which was true. From then on he took care of the big stuff and let me handle the peaches."

"Peaches?"

"Yeah," Ryan said, eyes glowing softly with the happy embers of his past. "I loved peaches when I was a kid. Couldn't get enough of them. I used to keep the pits in the side of my mouth after I ate them."

"Why?" Sandy laughed.

"One of my mom's boyfriends chewed tobacco," Ryan told him. "I didn't like the guy, but I didn't dislike him either. He never treated Trey and I rough and sometimes he did cool things with us. So he chewed tobacco and I thought it looked really cool, but he wouldn't give me any so I put the peach pits in the side of my mouth to make it look like I was doing it. Mom hated it and tried to get me to stop, but I didn't for a couple of years."

"What made you quit?"

"You mean besides looking like a total geek?" Ryan laughed before sobering. "I got punched in the side of my mouth that the pit was in. Tore up the side of my cheek pretty bad and knocked out a couple of my back teeth. Luckily, I hadn't lost my baby teeth there yet so the damage wasn't as bad as it could have been."

"Who punched you?" Sandy asked quietly.

"Not who you're thinking," Ryan told him. "Like I said…the guy that chewed tobacco never put a hand on us and he was long gone by this time, anyways. There was this kid in school I was constantly getting in fights with. He was a real asshole. He used to pick on this kid in our class that had hurt his leg as a baby or something and walked with a limp. Wouldn't leave him alone."

"So you stepped in?" Sandy guessed.

"Yeah," Ryan said with a shrug. "Nobody else was going to."

"Were those the fights you got suspended for?" Sandy asked him.

"Yeah," Ryan said. "There were a lot more of them, but only a couple took place on school property during school hours. In fact, the only two _real _fights I had with the guy were there at school."

"Real fights?" Sandy asked quietly. "What makes them real or unreal?"

"The kid with the limp, Greg Odinver, I think. He always walked with me after school," Ryan explained. "His house was in the same general direction as ours so we went together. Trey went to the middle school down a few blocks so we would meet up with him at the corner. The jerk, Jordan Everson, liked to ambush Greg on his way home from school. Only, now, I was there to and I wasn't some pushover like a lot of kids he was used to dealing with. Only problem was that he was _huge _and outweighed me by a lot. I could keep him from messing with us for a little bit, but he usually got in a few good hits."

"Sounds like real fights to me," Sandy said, his eyes creasing in confusion.

"I'm getting there," Ryan told him. "Trey wanted to know why the hell I kept coming to him with black eyes or split lips. Or, depending on the guy my mom was dating, why I came home more bruised than when I left. I didn't tell him, but he eventually worked it out that whatever was happening was happening after school in between when we got out and when we met up with him. So he ditched his last class and waited for us." He smiled, but the grin was dangerous. Something Sandy wasn't used to seeing from the kid at all.

"What happened?" Sandy questioned.

"Jordan started messing with us," Ryan answered. "Then Trey started messing with him."

"You say it like it's no big deal," Sandy said.

"Look," Ryan sighed. "The kid deserved whatever he got, Sandy. Not for messing with me, but for messing with Greg and kids like him. Trey had to beat the shit out of him a couple of times before he got that, but he definitely got it after that. I'm not proud of it, but that was life back then."

"Your brother fight a lot?"

"We both did," Ryan snorted. "Trey was just better at it than I was. He was angry, I was angry, but it was Trey that always took it a step farther than that. He was looking for reasons to mess with somebody and screwing around with me was one of those reasons. None of the older kids dared touch me because I was Trey Atwood's little brother. He protected me."

"Ryan," Sandy began. "You should be careful with your brother. He—"

"Don't," Ryan snapped. "I know what you're going to say. I shouldn't trust him, shouldn't believe what he says. He's using me, using me to get what he wants. I've heard it all before, Sandy."

"Those were not the exact words I was going to use," Sandy said sheepishly.

"He's my brother," Ryan said softly. "He's all I have had for years. I know he's using me. I know he's manipulative and selfish, but I don't care. He's a product of his circumstances, right? Same as me."

"You are _nothing_ like your brother," Sandy told him.

"How do you know?" Ryan asked. "You have never met him. Maybe I am exactly like my brother, Sandy. And maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Trey is tough. I _need_ that to survive."

"Not anymore," Sandy said earnestly. "You understand that, don't you, Ryan? You can have a different life, a different future. Nothing is set in stone, kid."

"Sure," Ryan sighed.

"We're back to that again?"

"What?"

"You're agreeing with me because you think that's what I want to hear," Sandy said.

"Are you saying you don't?" Ryan asked sharply. "You want me to tell you that I have no idea what I'm still doing here? You want to know that I'm not sure I believe life could ever be anything different? Is that what you want to hear, Sandy?"

"If that's how you feel," Sandy told him immediately. "I want you to trust me, kid. I want you to feel like you can tell me anything."

"It's not that easy," Ryan whispered. "I trust you, but…but I shouldn't."

"Am I not trustworthy?" Sandy asked, hurt despite knowing Ryan had every reason _not_ to trust him. He was someone new, someone that could potentially hurt him. Not physically maybe, but Ryan was used to physical abuse. What Ryan was terrified of was Sandy hurting him in other ways. Emotionally, mentally. It would be easy for Sandy to crush the kid's spirit, to confirm his belief that he was nothing to the world, that he was useless. He never would, but how to tell a beaten down sixteen year old that?

"It's not that," Ryan said, his voice pained. "Or…maybe it is. I don't know. I guess that's what I'm trying to say, Sandy. I trust you, but I know I shouldn't simply because I don't _know_ if you are trustworthy. Does that make sense?"

"Yes," Sandy said quietly. "I get it."

"That makes one of us," Ryan snorted. "I still have no idea what the hell is going on, Sandy. One moment I'm racing towards oblivion and the next…it's like I'm living somebody else's life. Like I'm in that old fairytale, you know? The one where the prince and the pauper meet and decide to change places to see how the other half lives. Only there isn't a prince in my story, Sandy. There's just me…and I'm waiting for the moment that everything crashes down again."

"It won't," Sandy told him gently. "We won't let it."

"Who?" Ryan asked, turning to face him. "You? Kirsten? Seth? Why would you want me around, Sandy? I've done nothing but disrupt your lives."

"That's not true," Sandy said firmly. "Ryan, don't you believe that for a second."

"Am I a charity case?" Ryan asked slowly, refusing to meet his eyes. "Just tell me that, Sandy. Why are you doing this? What possessed you to look at me and take a chance on me? Nobody has ever looked at me and said, 'I think this boy really has something special.' So, why would you?"

"You aren't a charity case," Sandy said, shaking his head. "As for why I chose to help you…I don't know." Sandy saw Ryan flinch from the corner of his eye and immediately tried to explain his words. "I saw something in you, kid. What I'm trying to say is that I don't know exactly what it was, but there was something in your eyes that set you apart from the hundreds of other kids I've defended over the years. Something that made me…made me want to know you. Want to help you. If I was out for a charity case I would have driven us into bankruptcy by now. I've defended plenty of kids in your situation that I didn't feel a real compulsion to bring into my home, into my life. Only you, kid. You do the math on that one."

Ryan didn't answer him and Sandy glanced over at his face. His expression was pensive, unsure, and so conflicted that it broke Sandy's heart. He was staring out the window at the crashing waves with the intense concentration Sandy had become used to seeing from him over the past week. It was unnerving that anyone so young could be so focused, like his whole world was spinning and the only way he could keep his balance was if he focused on the one thing that kept him oriented. Whatever that thing was. Sandy didn't know and Ryan had yet to tell him.

This type of conversation had been the type of thing Sandy had wanted from their excursion, but even though he'd planned for it he was still mangling it. This was what dealing with Ryan did. Sandy never knew exactly how to respond to the kid because he kept his thoughts to himself. If there was something that hurt him, offended him, angered him, he would never tell him unless Sandy asked him directly. Seth had always worn his emotions on his sleeves, always been so easy to read, but with Ryan Sandy had to constantly be on his toes. The only thing he could rely on was the kid's eyes. They told more than his voice ever could, but this time there was no telling what was going on his head.

"What are you thinking?" Sandy asked finally, reaching out a hand and putting it on Ryan's shoulder. The boy stiffened and Sandy immediately backed off.

"I can't do it again," Ryan whispered, his voice so soft Sandy could barely hear him. "I can't lose somebody else, Sandy. My mom—" He swallowed. "She left me, Sandy. Twice. She promised things would get better, you know? Promised it until she was blue in the face. That was her go to apology for everything. One of her boyfriends beat us up? Things will get better. She lost her job because she drank too much? Things will get better. We got kicked out of whatever shithole we were living in because she couldn't make rent? Things will get better. But, nothing ever did. Nothing. If anything they got worse."

"But I still loved her," Ryan continued, his voice hoarse. "I still _needed_ her. How fucked up is that? When I was little it was easy. She could bring me these little hard candies she used to buy at a local market for a penny and everything would be forgiven. Kids are simple that way, I guess. But then I got older and her boyfriends got more violent…or maybe I just started fighting back. I don't know, but we started fighting all the time. She was never good enough, she never tried hard enough. Hell, she never really tried at all. And I was stuck, Sandy. I was stuck behind this giant pane of glass watching my whole life fall to pieces, but I couldn't do anything about it. I was…I was useless."

"I wanted to hate her," Ryan went on, closing his eyes in guilt he shouldn't have felt. "I wanted to hate her so badly, Sandy. But, I never could. The moment I began to finally despise who she was and what she did she would—"He laughed bitterly. "We would share a moment. She would do something that vaguely resembled something motherly and I was so starved for that connection that I always let it pass. Or I would feel sorry for her. She'd come home, throwing up because she'd had too much to drink, and she would plead for me to help her, to be a good son. And, night after night, like a complete idiot I would get up, hold her hair back, clean her up, make sure she got into bed safely. How could I hate someone that was that pathetic? And then she leaves...just disappears when I actually need her help. The one moment that I—"

Ryan broke off and Sandy watched him bite his lip to keep hold of his emotions. Sandy thought about comforting him, but dismissed the idea. If Sandy said anything, did anything, it would break the spell that kept Ryan talking. It was no longer about learning what the kid liked, disliked. Now it was about letting him work through what had been broiling inside him for a long time. Ryan needed this. He needed to say what he never could, to feel what he never allowed himself to feel.

"She just left," Ryan said finally. "Just like that. She leaves a fucking note on a goddamn paper towel. I've taken care of her for years and she just…why would she do that? Did I really mean that little to her? That she couldn't even let me _know_ she was bailing. And then she comes back. Just waltzes through your door like nothing ever happened, like she had no idea why I might be angry with her. Just like she always did when I was a kid. Play it off, use words to manipulate the situation. Manipulate me into feeling guilty for being angry. Things are going to get better. The same old song, the same old lie. But, can I really blame her for using it? It worked, didn't it? I always came back with my tail between my legs, begging for more. I had nowhere else to go. Trey was a mess, Dad was in prison, Theresa's family loved me but they had their own problems. I wasn't going to dump mine on them. I thought about going to Austin with Bobby a lot, but how was I supposed to get there? I worked my ass off everyday, but every penny I earned went towards keeping us afloat, making it so that Trey and I didn't have to steal food, didn't have to make up stupid little games like Grocery Store Scavenge Hunt to mask the fact that we were hungry and were stealing just to have dinner that night and breakfast the next morning. I kept telling myself to stay until mom was back on her feet, until she could manage on her own, but she never did."

"So, she comes back," Ryan said harshly. "She comes back with the same old tired routine and she begs me to give her another chance, just like she used to, and I folded. And you…your whole damn family had to be kind and welcoming, had to be understanding. Even when she got drunk at your party, when she embarrassed you in front of all your friends, Kirsten's co-workers. I take my eyes off of her for one minute and everything goes to hell. I should have put my foot down when she told me she was counting cards like she used to when she was a dealer in Vegas. Should have told her that if she was going to act like that she wasn't welcome, should just go home. But, who was I to tell her? Who was I to say a damn thing about it? Wasn't I the one that got Seth drunk at a party for the first time? Burned down Kirsten's model home? How was I any better? So I leave her be, let her do what she's going to, but I knew the second she fell into that waiter that she'd let another 'everything is going to be better' pass us by. I pick her up off the floor and I think, 'Okay. I've got this. I know this. We'll be back to the same old routine, but at least this time I'll know better than to get in trouble.' I won't have to bother either of you ever again. I could forget that for a moment, just a moment, I had tasted something sweeter, been something better. That's what I fell asleep to that night, you know? I knew I would be leaving Newport. I didn't plan on ever seeing you, or Kirsten, or Seth again because seeing you, seeing your lives, what I could be if things were different…it hurt too much. And I was so tired, Sandy. So damned exhausted with everything that all I wanted, all I really wanted, was to feel nothing at all. To return to the life I knew and understood."

"But, she couldn't even give me that, could she?" Ryan said bitterly. "She takes one look at you and decides that she can pawn me off on you. You'll take care of me, you'll do what she couldn't. It sounds like she was trying to do the right thing, but I can't believe that she was. She used to tell us all the time that life would be easier on her if we weren't around. She bailed because she couldn't handle me being there, couldn't stand having me in her house acting like a god damn saint. I never wanted that, Sandy. Never. I coveted your life with every thing that I had, with every breath in my body, but I didn't want her to leave. Even knowing what she was I loved her, I was devoted to her. I could take care of her and feel like I was doing something worthwhile. That I was helping somebody. That's all I wanted. All I've _ever_ wanted. I wanted her. She just didn't want me."

"She waved," Ryan whispered. "I caught her leaving and all she does is smile and wave. Ciao, kid! See you never! Hope your okay with this!" He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again to look pleadingly at Sandy. "I don't mean to say that I'm not happy with your family. That staying with you isn't a dream come true because it is. It's just—"

"I get it," Sandy told him softly. "There is no need to explain, Ryan."

Ryan nodded then said, "If you leave or decide you don't want me anymore, let me know. I'm not your kid, after all. I'm just some punk from the street left on your doorstep."

"Stop it," Sandy said, so harshly that Ryan flinched away from him. "You've got to stop this, kid. You aren't a punk. You aren't worthless or useless. And, like it or not, you _are _my kid."

"That was different," Ryan said after a moment.

"What?" Sandy asked, confused.

"I've never had somebody yell at me like that before," Ryan replied softly.

"I wasn't yelling," Sandy said with a frown.

"You definitely weren't using your inside voice," Ryan told him, smiling despite himself.

"I didn't mean to yell," Sandy huffed. "I just want you to realize your own potential, Ryan. To see the kid I see."

"That's what I mean," Ryan said. "I've never had anyone yell at me and praise me at the same time. Usually it works the other way. Do you yell at Seth like this?"

"Are you kidding?" Sandy said with an amused snort. "Seth's head is big enough as it is."

"You should tell him anyways," Ryan said soberly.

"Maybe I should," Sandy agreed, looking back out at the waves. "Ryan?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For trusting me. Sharing with me."

"I shouldn't have gone off like that," Ryan grimaced. "I don't think I've done that before…ever."

"You said what you felt," Sandy told him. "What you needed to say. Did it make you feel any better?"

"You know," Ryan said slowly. "I think it kind of did. A little."

"There you go," Sandy smiled. "I came out here hoping you would open up to me. I can honestly say I never expected this much, but—" Sandy stopped at the look on Ryan's face then wished he could punch himself in the face. Or turn back time.

Ryan had opened up to him, which would have been difficult for anybody, but for Ryan, who kept his emotions under tight control and his words even tighter, it would be downright excruciating. Still, the kid had done it and Sandy had wanted him to. But, by telling Ryan that he hadn't expected to hear everything the kid had to say made it seem like Ryan had overloaded Sandy with information he didn't want. Had overstepped his boundaries just like he felt he had with the joke at Kirsten's expense earlier.

"Like I said," Ryan whispered. "I shouldn't have gone off like that."

"I'm glad you did," Sandy told him firmly. "When I said I hadn't expected it I only meant that I didn't think you would be willing to share with me. Not that I didn't want to hear it. You understand the difference, right?"

"Yeah."

"Are you doing it again?"

"Doing what again?"

"Telling me what I want to hear?"

"Not this time," Ryan said. "But no promises for next time."

"We'll handle next time when it comes," Sandy replied.

"Sandy," Ryan said after a moment of contemplative silence between them.

"Yeah?"

"I'm still hungry and you're still holding the keys captive."

"Right," Sandy grinned, putting the keys in the ignition and bringing the car to life. "Let's get some burgers."

Sandy had never told Kirsten about their conversation. At least not all of it. He wasn't sure why, but he felt that the words Ryan had shared had been meant for Sandy's ears only. Perhaps this was a bit conceited of him, certainly assuming, but he still kept the experience to himself. Loose lips sink ships, after all, and Ryan was the _Titanic_ waiting to happen. One simple gesture, one simple roadblock disguised as an iceberg ahead, could sink the trusting relationship Sandy had been working on building with the kid. He couldn't afford that because Ryan needed him. Needed to know that there were still people in the world he could count on.

Sandy came back to himself and looked at the top of his wife's head as she hugged him. Her idea was a sweet one and proved that she cared, but like with most things that required copious amounts of emotional involvement for his wife, she needed a little help.

"Peaches," Sandy said suddenly.

"What?" Kirsten asked, pulling back and rubbing her eyes.

"Ryan likes peaches," Sandy explained. "Do you really think this sense thing might work?"

"That's what the websites said," Kirsten replied. "Keep positive and stimulate his senses as much as possible."

"Whatever you brought should work for tonight," Sandy told her gently. "I'm going to talk to him anyways." He pulled her in again and planted a kiss on top of her head. "I may know of some things. I'll text you a list of them later tonight so you can gather them and bring them with you in the morning."

"Sounds good," Kirsten whispered.

"How's Seth?"

"Worried," Kirsten replied. "But he's with Summer. She seems to be doing a good job at keeping him calm."

"What about Anna?"

"She's been there for him to," Kirsten answered. "They're sweet girls. Still, I should pick him up. Do you think we should bring him tonight?"

"Not tonight," Sandy said with a small shake of his head. "It's been a rough day. We should keep it simple."

"How did talking with Trey go?" Kirsten asked quietly, glancing over at Ryan.

"It went as well as could be expected," Sandy whispered, pulling his wife into the corner farthest from Ryan. He wouldn't leave the kid's room, but he didn't want him to overhear their conversation. Sandy believed that Ryan could hear them. Had to believe.

"Did he tell you who was responsible for shooting Ryan?" Kirsten asked.

"He did," Sandy said. "After a bit of prodding from me."

"What did you do?" Kirsten said sharply.

"What needed to be done," Sandy told her.

"Sandy—"

"But Trey is no longer an issue," Sandy interrupted. "Jessica King, however, is a big issue."

"Jessica," Kirsten said softly. "I've been wondering when we'd hear from her."

"You knew she'd call?"

"I thought about it. It makes sense, Sandy. As hard as it is to accept, Ryan is still technically in the custody of the state. He hasn't been with us a full six months. They are bound to have questions."

"Why are you so calm about this?"

"I'm not," Kirsten protested. "I just expected it, is all."

"What are we supposed to do?" Sandy asked. "Jess said she would put in a good word for us, but—"

"I'll take care of it," Kirsten answered softly. "That's what I'm good at, remember? Just don't say anything to Ryan."

"I'm not stupid," Sandy huffed. "He's got enough to worry about."

"I'll make some calls on my way home," Kirsten told him, slipping towards the door. "They won't take him from us, Sandy. I promise you that."

"I know they won't," Sandy said, taking his seat beside Ryan and looping the kid's hand through his. "Go pick up Seth and get some dinner. And some sleep."

"I would say the same to you," Kirsten remarked as she walked out the door. "But I know it won't do you any good."

Sandy smiled and squeezed Ryan's hand, looking down at him fondly.

"What did she have you listening to?" Sandy asked, pulling the CD player off the ledge and opening it. He grimaced. "Oh, Ryan, I am so sorry. Enya? No wonder you're still sleeping, kid. I'd want to pass out to. Not that Enya isn't soothing I guess. If you're into that kind of thing. I'll tell Kirsten to bring in some movies from the house tomorrow. I know the ones you like." Sandy ran his thumb across Ryan's fingers absently. "When you wake up we can watch them together if you like. I think I am going to take some time off work and stay with you. Kirsten makes all the money, anyways. You and I could laze around the house doing guy things." Sandy twiddled with the hospital wrist band on Ryan's arm with his fingers as he cupped the kid's hand in his own. "You know…eating chips, making messes and not cleaning them up, talking about girls. We'll have to move you, you know. That pool house isn't going to work anymore. I mean, once you're back on your feet and you still want it, you are more than welcome to it, but maybe it would be better if you had a room in the main house. We have the room. It wouldn't be as big as the pool house, but you would be closer to us. Closer to your family."

Sandy squeezed Ryan's hand like he'd done a thousand times since Ryan had been in the ICU. It was reflexive and he hadn't really expected anything out of it. Which was why, when Ryan's fingers squeezed back, he nearly fell out of his chair in shock.

"Ryan?" Sandy gasped, looking up at the kid. He hadn't moved, but Sandy had felt his fingers squeeze his own. He could have been imagining it, he supposed, but he didn't think so.

"Come on," Sandy pleaded, squeezing Ryan's fingers again. "Come on, kid. Give me a sign, huh? Show me that you're there. You don't have to wake up now. Not if you don't want to, but give me something to work with. " Sandy waited, but nothing happened. "Okay, okay. No pressure, Ryan. You know that, right? You stay where you need to for as long as you need to, but know that there is a family out here who loves you. Who needs you."

Ryan's hand squeezed his fingers tightly, but unlike before they did not release. He hadn't opened his eyes, hadn't moved anything or given any other sign of life, but that didn't matter. The doctor had warned them that Ryan would wake up slowly, a little bit at a time, but if the kid started exhibiting signs of consciousness it meant that he would eventually return entirely to the world of the living. Of course, there was no telling what condition he would return in, but that didn't matter now. The only thing that mattered was the gentle pressure of Ryan's hand around Sandy's fingers. As far as Sandy was concerned that was as good as Ryan springing from his bed and dancing the Macarina.

Sandy didn't dare pull away, didn't dare separate his hand from his son's. He was terrified that he would break the fragile connection he'd managed to make with Ryan. Which was why he started yelling for doctors, nurses, whoever was nearby.

When they rushed in, thinking something had gone horribly awry, they were met with tears of happiness instead of tears of distress. A wide smile instead of the crumpling pain that so often plagued their jobs.

"He's squeezing my hand," Sandy said to them, tears streaming down his face and sounding like the dad who bragged about his kids at football games or parties. "Do you see? Look!"

"I see," the head nurse said with a smile. "Congratulations, Mr. Cohen. Hopefully this is the beginning of the end to your ordeal. I just need to check his vitals to see what's going on in that brain of his."

"I can't let his hand go," Sandy told her. "I won't. I'll hold it as long as he wants to hold mine."

"I'll move around you," the nurse agreed.

Sandy nodded gratefully and sunk down to his knees beside Ryan's bed. He kissed the top of Ryan's hand as his son's fingers tightened slightly.

"So proud," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I'm so proud of you, Ryan."

Sandy didn't know that Ryan heard him, didn't know that he was sitting on the edges of consciousness. He recognized the man's voice, but he couldn't seem to remember where. Still, he supposed that was okay, because he couldn't seem to remember much of anything. Flashes, sounds, smells. They accosted him from all angles. Ryan knew he should be able to place them, but he couldn't. The only thing he knew with any real certainty was his name, his identity. He was Ryan.

The void stretched out in front of him, dark and terrifying. Within that void was pain, suffering. He'd had enough of all that. He couldn't remember any particular details of any of it, but he knew he'd had enough. He could remain safe and calm in the soothing warmth of his own mind. It would be easier than having to navigate his way back to consciousness. Easier than dealing with the void. He didn't want to leave. He was terrified to leave.

Still, that voice. There were no memories connected to it, no face to guide him, but there were emotions. Strong, overwhelming emotions that made his heart feel like it was going to burst. Love, loyalty, devotion, a fierce need for approval, happiness. Whoever the voice belonged to had made Ryan happy in the world of the living. Made him want to be a better person.

And the voice was proud of him. He'd said so. Ryan had reached out into the void and connected with the voice somehow. He'd felt his fingers squeezing from very far away and willed his eyes to open so he could put a face to the name, but the demons in the void had laughed at him for his troubles. They wouldn't release him until he'd taken a daring leap into the black waters of his mind. He didn't want to do it. He was terrified to do it. But, he would. He would do it for the voice that was proud of him. Because it meant the world for the voice to be proud of him. It was all he wanted.

Ryan took the plunge, never looking back.


	10. Genetic Emancipation

**Author's Note: **_First off, I apologize for the long break. This chapter was really difficult for me for some strange reason. I couldn't quite figure out how I wanted time to flow and every draft I made just didn't sound right. Normally I am able to sit down for a couple of hours and just write it all out, but this time it was different. I know I said it would all be from Sandy and Ryan's point of view, but I wanted this to be in there somewhere. I yearned for a moment like this in the show, but it never really happened. Anyways, this chapter is from Kirsten's point of view. There isn't a whole lot of Ryan interaction, but there is a small flashback and I think it is worth a read. I know many of you skip my chapters until the Ryan parts, but I really hope you read this. Please REVIEW like always and tell me how I did. I am looking for a bit of flattery or a bit of criticism if that is what you think._

Three days. It had been three whole days since Kirsten's life, her family's life, had been turned upside down by a phone call. It seemed strange to her that such a simple event, such a common occurrence could cause such turmoil. She felt like everyone she loved was dangling over a giant precipice and she was the only keeping them all from falling. She was drained, but she couldn't rest. Exhausted, but she couldn't sleep.

She spent most of her days at the hospital with Sandy. He had called her two days earlier, breathless with excitement, and proudly told her that Ryan had responded to his voice. Ever since that moment her husband had refused to leave Ryan's side. Like a baby bird imprints on the first creature it sees after it hatches, Sandy wanted to be the first thing Ryan saw when he finally woke from his forced slumber. He had cheered and celebrated every twitch of Ryan's fingers, every flicker of movement behind his eyelids. Doctor Woodruff seemed positive that Ryan would wake soon only fueling Sandy's need to remain at his side.

Kirsten understood her husband's need. She understood the incredibly strong connection he shared with Ryan and the excitement of knowing he would live through his ordeal. She understood, but she worried. Sandy was not superman and he'd worn himself ragged with worry, with desperation and hope. She could see the dark circles beneath her husband's eyes, rings of exhaustion that made him look haggard and old. She had begged him to go home and get some sleep, but he'd refused.

So, she stayed with him during the day, picked up Seth from Summer's or Anna's house, and went home to spend her evening with her son. She wanted to draw comfort from the normalcy of home, but she couldn't. There was no home without Sandy, without Ryan. Everything seemed wrong somehow, fake, as if she were the only real person in a land of fantasy. Only, her fantasy world wasn't really a fantasy world at all. It was a nightmare. There were no rainbows and unicorns for Kirsten Cohen. There was only worry, only heartache.

Of course, life cared very little for her sorrows. It carried on like it always would whether Kirsten liked it or not. There were so many things she needed to take care of, so many things that stood in the way of peaceful sleep. She had begun to clean out one of their extra bedrooms of the various keepsakes and valuables they had stored in it over the years. She and Sandy had agreed that Ryan would need to have a room in the house while he healed and, perhaps, even after. Kirsten didn't know how long Ryan would be in the hospital, but she wanted to have it ready for him.

The police had taken up a great deal of her time to. They had been in and out over the last couple of days, Office Ortega more than most. They had spoken to Trey and, true to his word, the young man had confessed to who was most likely behind Ryan's shooting. Too much time had passed since the crime, however, and when the police arrived to take Munoz in for questioning he was nowhere to be found. Oretga had told her that they had a few leads, but none were very promising. What he _hadn't_ told her was that a crew of investigators would be showing up at her door with a search warrant to search Ryan's room for evidence that he was involved in the chop shop operation Munoz was running.

She had watched them search his room, tears of bitterness and fury drying on her cheeks. It hadn't taken them long. Ryan had only a few possessions when he had become a member of their family and even though Kirsten had offered to buy him whatever he wanted for the pool house he had refused her. She was quite sure that Ryan could still fit whatever belongings he had in the small duffle bag he'd brought with him that first night. Ortega had looked uncomfortable, leaning against one of the back walls as his men carried out their orders. Kirsten had wanted to take out all her fury and sorrow on the man, but she couldn't. She knew he was only doing what he was supposed to do, but it saddened her to know that, even as a victim, Ryan was still a worthy candidate for suspicion.

Even more tiring was the Newpie reaction to her son's injury. It hadn't taken them all long to discover that the 'Cohen's little charity case' had gotten himself seriously wounded. Kirsten was positive that Julie Cooper had made the rounds and had told everyone some ridiculous story that would inevitably portray Ryan as the bad guy, the gangster from Chino. Every time the doorbell rang Kirsten would answer it with the sunniest smile, making sure she took every fake casserole, every spurious condolence with the cheeriest disposition she could muster. Most of the time she wanted to slap the simpering looks of pity from their stupid, tanned faces, but the less fuel she gave them the better.

Then there was her father. Caleb Cohen seemed unburdened by her newest son's medical crisis. In fact, he seemed irritated that Ryan's injury was keeping Kirsten from her work. She had called him to take some time off, expecting concern or, at the very least, understanding, but she had received neither.

"I don't understand why this is your responsibility, Kiki," he had told her gruffly. "The child has a mother, does he not?"

"Yes," Kirsten said slowly. "But, she left him, Dad. He's a part of our family now. We love—"

"Please tell me you have at least _contacted_ her to help with paying for all this," Caleb interrupted. "This sort of thing isn't cheap, Kiki. You would be foolish to not collect some sort of payment from her."

"Dad," Kirsten whispered. "Please…why are you doing this?"

"I am protecting you," Caleb told her gruffly.

"From what?" Kirsten questioned. "From Ryan? He isn't what you think he is, Dad. He's a great kid and if you just got know him then—"

"He's a thief, Kiki. A no-good scoundrel that will pick you dry if you give him half the chance."

Kirsten had wanted to argue with him, to force her father to see what a fool he was being, but she was too exhausted to even try. She had merely told Caleb that she would not be in for work trying to ignore the disdain in his voice. After she had hung up the phone she had sat holding the phone in her hands, stunned into silence. She had never seen her father react that way to anyone. Caleb had hated Sandy from the moment Kirsten had first brought him home with her, but even her husband received more warmth from her father than Ryan did.

Sandy had tried to tell her. He had seen the hatred in her father's eyes from the moment Caleb had met Ryan, but she had refused to listen. He was her father, after all. It was her duty to defend him, to love him when no one else would. If Kirsten were to abandon him then he would be alone in the world. Her sister, Hailey, hadn't been seen for quite some time and Kirsten knew that she didn't share much love for her father. She should feel proud that her father had so much faith in her, trusted her so completely, but all she could feel was a clawing anxiety in her stomach and an emptiness in her heart. Why did he make her feel this way? Why couldn't she stand up to—

A car door slammed somewhere outside, drawing Kirsten from her thoughts. She could hear Julie Cooper's raucous giggles and she felt sick. Caleb would be staying the night with her then. Disgusting.

Kirsten groaned and rolled over in her bed, staring at her clock with tired eyes. It was already two in the morning. Half of her night was gone and she was nowhere near sleep. She wished she could be up at the hospital with her husband and Ryan, but the nurses had strictly forbidden more than one parent in the room at night. They had said something about hospital rules and patient safety, but none of it made sense to her. What harm could she do Ryan by being there? She had tried to argue, but they had eventually threatened to take her visiting privileges away all together so she stopped. Sandy offered to let her stay the night instead of him, but Kirsten could see how much it was costing her husband to do so. Even as she told him no she could see the relief flood his eyes.

"This is ridiculous," she sighed, sitting up and rubbing her eyes blearily.

She wouldn't sleep. She knew that. It had been silly for her to even try, but what else was she supposed to do at two in the morning? She had tried reading, but she couldn't focus on the words in front of her and had read the same page twenty times before finally throwing the book down in frustration. She had tried watching television, but the comedy shows weren't funny and the dramas made her feel worse than she did before. She had tried cooking, but was so out of sorts that she had caught her dishrag on fire and turned a particularly magnificent roast into so much charred meat. She had even tried playing Seth's video games, but they all involved guns or violence and served as a constant reminder of where the newest member of her family was and why he was there.

The only thing that seemed to offer her any comfort at all was sitting in the pool house. She could feel close to Ryan there and perhaps even close her eyes and imagine she was sitting up at the hospital with him, holding his hand the way Sandy did. She retreated there now, padding softly outside and opening the door with a soft squeak of hinges. The moon glowed softly inside the small room and illuminated it well enough that Kirsten didn't have to turn on the light to find her way to the bed. She sat down with a soft sigh, trying to ignore the destruction the police had caused as they had ransacked his room.

A small plastic bag lay to her left, filled with Ryan's wallet, keys and cellphone. The hospital had handed them over to the police after they had stripped him of his clothes. Officer Ortega had explained that they might hold evidence and had to be bagged in order to be checked. He had given them back to her after they had searched Ryan's room. He had been apologetic and solemn. There hadn't been any evidence to put Ryan as an accomplice in any of Munoz's crimes. Kirsten knew that already. Ortega had known it to. He'd said so repeatedly and he'd apologized more than once for their intrusion.

Kirsten opened the bag with her fingers and dumped the contents onto the bed beside her. She refused to touch the cellphone. She had seen the bloody fingerprints all over the screen and had nearly been sick. The wallet and keys had been in his back pocket. Both were crusted with blood, but when she touched them she wasn't pounded with the memory of his weak voice telling her how much harder he believed he made everything. Wasn't reminded of how much she had failed to show him that she cared.

She flipped the wallet open and looked at the contents, her heart tightening in her chest. The items within were almost as sparse as the items in his room. His driver's license photo was faded even though he'd only received it a year ago. He wasn't smiling in the photo, but she wasn't horribly surprised. There were very few things in this world that brought a smile to his lips and she highly doubted that waiting long hours in line at the DMV was one of them. A silver checking card was tucked in the top pocket with the activation sticker still stuck on the bottom. Sandy and Kirsten had added him to their account and had given it to him for emergencies, but he'd never used it. The look on his face when they had handed it to him had been strangely guilty, but it wasn't until now that she understood why. He thought he was a burden on them, a responsibility they felt obligated to take care of but didn't want.

Kirsten swallowed hard as emotion hit her. She nearly threw the wallet away from her, but was stopped by something folded neatly in the crease where his cash would be. She took it out with shaking fingers and pulled it apart, the edges stuck together with blood. It was a photograph. The faces were warped from the blood stains, but she recognized it all the same and her heart broke. It was the four of them standing together in front of the pool. Seth and Ryan had been in the middle with Kirsten and Sandy standing on either side of them. Sandy's arm was wrapped around Ryan's shoulder pulling the young man in closer to them. Ryan had seemed surprised by the gesture as he always did, but his lips had been quirked into a sweet and unsure smile.

She remembered having that photo taken, but more importantly she remembered the first time she had stopped looking at Ryan as someone else's child and began looking at him as her own. He had been with them for almost a month and a half and they had been celebrating her birthday with a small barbecue. The boys were swimming in the pool, Seth chattering mindlessly about one subject or another while Ryan lounged quietly on a pool float. Sandy had been busy at the grill, smiling contentedly as he cooked their dinner to perfection. Kirsten hated being left without anything to do and decided that a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon would go perfectly with their steaks. She brought out a small bottle to share with her husband, juggling the glasses and the bottle in her hands. The glasses had slipped from her fingers and shattered against the concrete sending sharp shards of crystal in every direction.

"Kirsten," Sandy called as the boys looked over to see the cause of the commotion. "You okay, honey?"

"Fine," Kirsten growled setting the wine down on the table. "I just dropped some glasses."

She bent down to pick up some of the larger shards, but Ryan had beaten her to it. Kirsten didn't even know he had gotten out of the pool so fast. He sent her a small smile as he carefully picked up the pieces, cupping them gently in his left hand.

"I can do this," he told her softly. "You should relax."

"Everyone keeps telling me that today," Kirsten sighed.

"It _is_ your birthday," Ryan said pointedly. "Isn't relaxing something you're supposed to do?"

"Hasn't anyone told you?" Kirsten said. "I don't know _how_ to relax."

"I know the feeling," he whispered, reaching for a rather jagged piece of glass with his fingertips.

Kirsten was about to answer him, but he suddenly pulled his hand back with a small gasp of pain. The glass he'd been reaching for had sliced deep into his ring finger, the tip breaking off inside the wound. Blood was already beginning to sluice down his wrist as he sat back on his haunches and cursed. Kirsten had never been much for blood. It had always made her a bit queasy and as a child she had been prone to fainting when she had been forced to get her blood drawn.

Still, she was a mother and part of that meant handling substances one would normally find disgusting. She'd learned to deal with it after handling dozens of Seth's scraped knees, scratched elbows, and cut hands.

"Let me see," she told Ryan, pulling his hand towards her.

"No," he said softly, his muscles tensing beneath his skin as he strained against her hold. "It's okay, Kirsten. I can handle it. It's just a cut."

"It looks pretty deep," Kirsten said, ignoring him. "We need to get the glass out and get the bleeding stopped before we can see if you'll need stitches." She pulled him up with her, grabbing a cloth napkin from the table and wrapping it around his fingers.

"It's not a big deal," Ryan insisted as Kirsten led him inside. "I can take care of it on my own. You don't need to bother."

"Seth," Kirsten called behind her, ignoring him once more. "Watch out for that glass and tell your father we'll be back out in a bit."

"Everything okay?" Seth yelled back.

"Ryan cut himself on some glass," she replied. "Just fixing him up."

"Kirsten," Ryan said, pulling his injured hand from her grasp as they made their way towards the bathroom. "I'm fine. You should go outside and enjoy your party."

"Ryan Atwood," Kirsten said with a small smile. "Someone might think you're afraid of me."

"It's not that," Ryan said quietly. "I just don't want to be a burden. I've taken care of myself for a long time."

"Maybe you have," Kirsten agreed. "But it's about time you let someone else take care of you for a change. Besides, I know what I'm doing. I've taken care of more than my fair share of cuts and bruises."

"Okay," Ryan said with a small nod of his head.

She took him to the bathroom and he hopped up on the bathroom counter while she rummaged in one of the cupboards for the first aid kit she kept there. He watched her as she set the kit beside him and opened up her top drawer to grab a pair of tweezers and a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. Then she took his hand and gently unwrapped the napkin from around his cut.

"Seth used to come home with some of the worst scrapes," she told him as she turned on the sink. She put his fingers beneath the water and he winced, but he didn't complain. "He would make such a fuss when I cleaned him up. You'd think I'd been torturing the kid the way he carried on."

She turned the water off and held his hand up to the light trying to find the small piece of glass stuck in his finger even as blood began to bubble up again. She could barely see it and she grimaced at how deep it had sunk into Ryan's flesh.

"This might hurt a bit," she said apologetically, grabbing the tweezers and rubbing the tips with the alcohol.

"I'm pretty sure I've had worse," Ryan told her cryptically.

She glanced up at him, but his face was unreadable. He met her eyes for a brief moment then looked away, staring at some spot on the wall beside her ear. Kirsten sighed softly then turned her attention back to her work. She carefully pinched the piece of glass between the edges of the tweezers, purposefully avoiding Ryan's face. She had never been able to look at Seth while she worked on his cuts. The pain on his face had hurt her as much as the cut had hurt him.

She pulled upwards and the glass came free from Ryan's finger. The boy did not make a sound and Kirsten was unnerved by his lack of auditory outbursts. Perhaps this was because she was simply used to Seth's loud complaining and couldn't comprehend that others may have a higher pain tolerance than her son. Or perhaps she was unnerved because Ryan's silence left her wondering if he'd simply grown so used to pain and experienced so much of it that trivial cuts no longer mattered.

It was easy to forget that Ryan had been through horrors no child should have to live through. He was so easy to get along with, so helpful in everything he did, and so normal acting that it grew hard to see his pain, his unease and distrust, until moments such as these presented themselves. She could pass off his refusal to meet their eyes and his general dislike of touch as simple shyness because it was easier than having to acknowledge what he'd been through, but sometimes she wanted to ask, wanted to uncover the wounds lying hidden beneath his stony exterior so that she could mend them like she'd mended Seth's scrapes.

"You're good at this," Ryan said mildly as she poured alcohol over the cut to clean it out. "My mom used to be good at it to. Before—"He looked away from her. "Before my dad went to prison. We'd get a scrape and she would blow on it. Her breath would be really cold and, for a moment, the pain would go away. She used to call it her 'mommy touch'."

"Do you miss her?" Kirsten asked softly.

"Yeah," Ryan told her. "I miss her, but I don't think I want to find her anymore."

"Why?"

"She wasn't really my mother anymore," Ryan whispered. "She hadn't been for a long time, I guess. After my dad went away she just…she gave up. She changed."

"And your father?"

"What about my father?" Ryan asked quietly, his eyes darkening.

"Do you ever talk to him?" Kirsten asked, putting pressure on his fingers to try and stop the bleeding. "See him?"

"No," Ryan said simply.

"We could take you if you wanted," Kirsten offered, not understanding at that moment that much of the pain Ryan had gone through had been at his father's hands. "It would be a bit of a drive, but—"

"No," Ryan said sharply. Kirsten looked up at him in alarm and he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and softened his voice. "I'm sorry. It's a nice offer, but—it wouldn't be a good idea." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's easier to pretend I don't have a father than it is to acknowledge I have one. Out of sight, out of mind, right?"

"Ryan," Kirsten whispered as she wrapped a bandage around his finger. "Sandy and I looked at your medical file and—" She stopped when he stiffened and looked up at him. His jaw was clenched and his eyes had gone flat, twin stagnant, windless oceans of blue. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," Ryan told her quietly. "Are you finished?"

"Yeah," Kirsten said, thrown off balance by his sudden change in demeanor. "I suppose."

"Thanks," he told her, hopping off the counter. "I should probably get out there and finish cleaning up before dinner."

He pushed past her and was almost through the door before Kirsten could even open her mouth to stop him. She knew she wasn't easy to connect with, but she had been hoping to have a moment with Ryan. If she were Sandy she would know the right things to say in order to get him to open up to her, but she wasn't her husband. She wanted the young man to trust her, but she didn't know how to make it happen.

"Ryan," she began. He stopped and turned to face her, his face pensive and cautious. She was going to tell him that she was there for him, that he could talk to her, but the obvious distrust in his eyes stopped her. She knew he wasn't trying to be hurtful, knew it was simply an instinct born from years of abuse, but it hurt her all the same. "You'll need to keep that clean."

"Yeah," he whispered, looking at her strangely, as if he knew that wasn't what she was going to say. "I know. Thanks."

Kirsten sighed and leaned against the sink. Leave it to her to try and have a meaningful conversation, but somehow manage to muck it up in the process. She hadn't realized until now that she craved his acceptance, his approval, perhaps as much as he craved hers. She wanted him to open up to her like a son would open up to his mother.

When she had returned to the pool the glass had been cleared and her family was beginning to sit down for dinner. Marissa and Jimmy had stopped by to say hello, but Sandy had somehow coaxed them to stay for dinner. She expected that her husband had offered them a place at their table more for Ryan's sake because she knew that Sandy wasn't a giant fan of Jimmy Cooper or of his old relationship with Kirsten.

After dinner, while they were singing happy birthday, Ryan met her eyes for the briefest moment and gifted her with a small smile. Her heart warmed at the sight of it and she smiled back making sure to meet his eyes before they flickered away from her again. Then Jimmy had offered to take a picture of the Cohen family and they had all gotten up with semi-reluctant grumbles to pose for the camera. Only Ryan stayed seated.

"Ryan," Sandy called. "Come on, kid. You should be in this."

"You go ahead," Ryan told him. "I'm not much of a picture person."

"Jimmy said 'family' photo," Kirsten said loudly. "That means you to. Now get up here and make us look good."

Sandy met her eyes over the top of Seth's head and smiled proudly at her. She grinned back and watched as Ryan joined them, trying to act reluctant, but Kristen could tell that he was secretly pleased. As they huddled together as a family, she realized just how much she cared about the young man that had come so suddenly into their lives. She simply had to find a way to show it.

Kirsten studied the photo for a long time in the dark shadows of the pool house. She had wasted so much time worrying about so many other things that she had completely forgotten what was important to her. She hated herself for allowing Julie Cooper and her father to treat Ryan like a pariah. She hated the fact that she had been unable to stand up for him when she knew, without a shadow of a doubt that he would have stood up for her.

She looked up and across the pool to where Julie Cooper's house stood silent in the moonlight. She hated that woman and she hated her father for sullying her mother's memory by dating her. Fury, hot and strong, suddenly flooded through her and before she even knew what she was doing she was halfway across the yard, striding purposefully towards the Cooper residence. She was going to give Julie Cooper a piece of her mind and if her father was there she might just give it to him to.

As she made her way down the driveway she couldn't help but wonder where the sudden burst of spontaneity had come from. Years ago, when she had first me Sandy, she had been full of fire and spirit and moments such as this occurred almost daily. Sandy often told her that he fell in love with rebelliousness first and her later. And then, somewhere along the way, she had lost that part of herself. She started working for Caleb and quickly began to worry less about what felt right and began to worry more about what looked right on paper. She missed the days when she was struggling to make ends meet. They may have been hard, may have been terrifying, but they were the best years of her life.

She reached Julie's door and pounded on the doorbell harder than was probably necessary. For a brief moment the realization of what she was doing hit her and she almost ran away. Here she was, standing outside her neighbor's door at three in the morning in nothing more than her pajamas and robe waiting to have a confrontation with the bitch of Newport. The only thing that kept her standing there was the thought of Ryan's killer running free all because Julie Cooper decided to stick her nose where it didn't belong.

Kirsten pushed her finger down on the doorbell and kept it there. She could hear the annoying buzzer like sound through the door and she smiled grimly. The porch light suddenly came on and Kirsten released her hold on the bell, listening as someone angrily unlocked the door. Julie Cooper threw the door open and stood, hands on her hips, glaring at Kirsten from across the threshold.

"What the hell are you doing?" Julie demanded. "Have you gone completely crazy?"

"I want to know why," Kirsten hissed. "I want to know why you stopped Marissa from talking to the cops, Julie."

"This is ridiculous," Julie said, trying to shut the door in her face. "I don't have anything to say to you."

"Don't," Kirsten spat, putting her foot in the door. "Don't you dare shut that door on me. I want an answer of why you decided to put my family through this. Who the hell do you think you are?"

"He's a criminal," Julie said disdainfully. "He nearly got my daughter killed. Whatever happened to him is his own damn fault."

"Your daughter?" Kirsten smirked. "The same daughter you put through hell these last few months? The daughter who hates you? You don't get to pick and choose when you care about your kids, Julie."

"How dare you—"

"How dare I?" Kirsten yelled. "How dare you! That asshole nearly killed Ryan and now he's loose because you had some kind of vendetta against my kid!"

"He isn't your kid," Julie hissed. "He's some scoundrel your lowlife husband found on the street and brought home to our neighborhood. Kids like Ryan don't belong in Newport, Kirsten. They belong in jail."

"You know what I think?" Kirsten said cruelly. "I think the only reason you don't like Ryan is because he reminds you of where you came from, Julie. Only…he's better than you ever were, isn't he? He was never trailer trash."

"I won't stand here and listen to this," Julie said, anger flushing her cheeks. "You have no right to speak to me this way."

"I have every right," Kirsten shouted. "Do you know who came to my home yesterday, Julie? The cops. They tore through my home looking for evidence against Ryan. They invaded the place where my children live and turned it sour."

"That's what you get when you bring lying, no-good, criminals into your—"

Kirsten had never hit another person in her life. She normally abhorred violence, but in that moment slapping Julie Cooper across the face had never felt better. Both women stood there, flushed with anger and chests heaving, while silence fell upon them. The resounding slap seemed to echo in Kirsten's ears and her palm stung.

"Kiki," her father said, opening the door and staring down at his daughter in shock. "What is the meaning of this? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"She hit me," Julie said slowly. "Caleb, did you see what she did? Your daughter hit me."

"And it felt damn good," Kirsten spat.

"What the hell is the matter with you, Kiki? What has gotten into you?"

"I am tired of people treating Ryan like he's dirt," Kirsten said harshly. "I am sick of hearing that he's a criminal. And I am sick of that bitch walking around like she's better than him."

"This is about that boy?" Caleb asked her, eyes widening in surprise. "Has he really got you this fooled?"

"I don't understand where you got the idea that Ryan is going to steal from us," Kirsten whispered, staring at her father. "He wants nothing from us, Dad. We try to buy him things and he refuses. Christ, we gave him his own check card and he hasn't even activated it."

"It's an act, Kiki. Surely you can see that. He's waiting for the right moment and then he'll strike."

"You're wrong about him," Kirsten pleaded. "Just give him a chance. You'll see what I see. I guarantee it."

"Don't be a fool," Caleb said fiercely. "Your mother and I brought you up with more brains than this."

"My mother?" Kirsten said coldly. "You dare bring up mom when you're sleeping with this tramp? How dare you even talk about her. The fact that you're with Julie Cooper is an insult to her memory."

"You're being quite the hypocrite," Caleb snapped. "You tell me to get to know this miscreant you bring into our family, but you refuse to accept Julie as part of it as well."

"I _know_ what Julie is," Kirsten said. "And I will _never _accept her as a member of my family. I would rather die than—"

"You are being a bit dramatic, don't you think?" Caleb said disdainfully.

"My kid is lying comatose in the hospital," Kirsten said softly. "I'm exhausted, Daddy. And all I want is for you to give him a chance. Please…just give him a chance."

There was a moment's silence and Kirsten actually began to hope that her father was considering her words. Julie glared at her from behind his back, the imprint of Kirsten's fingers clearly visible across her skin.

"I'm sorry you've chosen to be a child about this," Caleb told her finally. "I will not allow myself to be sucked into this boy's game, Kiki. I would have hoped you would have been strong enough to do what was necessary, but I can see that you will have to learn the hard way."

His words struck Kirsten like a wrecking ball and she put a hand to her chest as if the pressure of her fingers could help heal the hole he'd torn through her heart. She could feel tears pricking at her eyes, but she refused to shed them. Not in front of Julie and certainly not in front of her father.

"I see," Kirsten whispered.

"You realize how foolish you've been eventually," Caleb continued. "And you'll be mortified when you do, but I am prepared to overlook this little outburst and pretend it never happened. I will see you at work when you are ready to stop acting like a spoiled child."

"Sandy was right about you," Kirsten said softly. "I give you everything and you just—" She shook her head and swallowed. "I love you, Dad. I love you, but things have to change. Ryan is a member of our family now. Whether you like it or not. If you can't accept that then—" She shrugged her shoulders listlessly.

"Then what?" Caleb snorted.

"You aren't welcome in my home anymore, Dad."

"Kiki," Caleb exclaimed. "You can't be serious!"

"You know what?" Kirsten whispered sadly. "I really think I am. Ryan has been through hell and back, Dad. And yet he continues to be kind and loyal and selfless. I used to think that you were the one to admire…that if I could be like you I would be happy, but now I realize that it isn't you I should strive to be like. It's him." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I will work with you, but I can't continue to play both sides. I have to choose and, for better or worse, I've chosen Ryan."

She met his eyes to let him know she was deadly serious then turned and began to walk back to her home. She felt the tears starting, but she managed to keep her shoulders steady.

"What happens when he does exactly what I said he would?" Caleb called after her. "Don't even think about asking for my help!"

"Don't worry," Kirsten said, turning to face him. "I won't."

She turned her back on him once more and walked slowly up the driveway to her home. It was only when she had closed the door that she finally let the emotion hit her. Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs and slid down the doorframe until she sat in a heap at its base. She tried to be quiet, tried to keep from waking Seth, but once her tears began they wouldn't stop. She heard his door open and his feet padding down the hallway.

"Mom," Seth cried in alarm. "Is Ryan okay? What happened?"

"I'm fine," Kirsten gasped out, wiping her eyes. "Go back to bed, Seth."

"But—"

"Please," Kirsten whispered. "Seth, I just need a minute."

"Did Dad call?" Seth persisted. "Is Ryan okay?"

"No," Kirsten told him. "Dad didn't call. I just—"

In the coming days Kirsten would wonder if God above had planned that moment. No sooner had she began to explain that Sandy hadn't called the phone rang. At three thirty in the morning there was only one person it could be.

"Hello," Kirsten said breathlessly as she picked up the phone. "Sandy?"

"Kirsten," Sandy said harshly. She could hear the emotion in his voice and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

"Is—is everything okay, Sandy?" she asked. "Is Ryan—"

"Kirsten," Sandy said again, hoarser than before. "Kirsten, he's awake. Ryan's awake."


End file.
